


A Method of Practical Living

by ferreuscelo



Series: If You Can't Move Heaven, Raise Hell [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hannibal's not the rapist btw, Murder, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferreuscelo/pseuds/ferreuscelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walking on the edge of the knife with a man who knows every facet of darkness, enduring unspeakable horrors and surviving. This wasn't supposed to be her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When you feel disgusted by your own body, many ideas run through your head. She’s never been self conscious about her appearance because she considers herself pretty, rather plain but pretty. Her body is harmonious and she’s even been told about this on uncountable occasions. Of course, she could have chosen to reject this idea, but she accepted compliments whenever they came. Some were believable, others not so much, especially coming from her mother. Her father was a whole different story. She never had a problem with eating disorders, never cut herself, never found the need to nor understood what’s so interesting in it. So Abigail Hobb’s body has never been subjected to doubts. Until her father tried to kill her holding a knife against her neck and she was sent to the Port Haven Psychiatric Facility.

When Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter presented themselves she knew that everything in her past life was gone. That from that moment on, she’d have to deal with many people who’d love to poke into her mind to study her like a rare insect. Trusting someone after experiencing the death of the man and woman who gave birth to her looked like an impossible task at first. Abigail was between the devil and the deep blue sea, hiding her agony and showing herself as collateral damage.

But that wasn’t the only thing she’d have to worry about. The suffering didn’t end there.

It all started on a sunny November morning. It was the thorough cleaning day and all the patients were sent to other communal spaces to wait until they were done. After days and days of constant rain, Abigail was in a foul mood and didn’t want to see anyone else. She just wanted to stay in her room, read the stupid book Alana offered her and be alone. Surprisingly, the nurse disinfecting her space allowed her to remain inside. Alice, the nurse, began with a small talk, and the girl barely replied with monosyllables as she lay on her stomach on the bed. Everything was going relatively okay until she felt a hand over her rear. Shocked, she turned to look at the woman who replied back with a sinister smile. The door was closed and no one could see what was going inside.

“What are you doing?” Abigail pushed her hand away but the woman put it back in its initial position.

“Open your mouth and you’re going straight to the BSHCI. Take your pants off.” It was a direct order, not a suggestion.

“Fuck off, “ she replied returning her attention to her book.

The nurse didn’t doubt. She grabbed the girl’s face and struck her with a force Abigail never imagined she’d have and when she opened her mouth to speak again, she received another violent slap. “Take your pants off. _Now_.”

She didn’t have any other choice but obey. Soon enough, the woman’s hands were all over her sex stroking, pinching and entering her with her fingers and tongue. Abigail was in a total state of shock and terrified. She has fooled around with Marissa, kisses, caresses, gentle touches but it never reached this point. Sex for Abigail is a thorny topic. She felt the urges, she had her body prepared for it, she started taking contraceptive pills but she stopped every time she started making out with a boy, hidden in the thick forest near the house. The obvious reason was that she feared her father. She feared he’d know if she did it and if _that_ happened, he’d kill her instantly. His daughter’s purity was sacred, in a twisted, disgusting way.

She wasn’t expecting abuse to take place in an institution that supposedly helps people to recover from traumatic experiences and rebuild their lives, or at least that’s what Alana Bloom vehemently promised her. So Abigail lay very still in bed, her eyes tightly shut and her fists clenched at her sides while Alice played with her. The nurse stopped when she started sobbing, not out of respect for the patient but afraid that she’d start crying louder drawing the other’s attention to the room. She pulled up Abigail’s underwear and pants, buttoned, zipped them and exited the bedroom. The young girl didn’t get any sleep that night, frightened that she’d assault her again in the middle of the night.   

_Trust no one._

The following day she receives Hannibal in her room. He has started taking his job as a guardian very seriously and the idea somehow unnerves her. She’s being treated like a doll and something pitiful to ‘protect’ when all she needs is to escape to somewhere where she’s not famous. Abigail’s paranoia makes her believe that the doctor will notice something and start asking questions. Can she trust him? He saved her life, sure, but if people who are supposed to help her treat her like Alice, how could she put herself in the hands of a complete stranger like him? After closing the door behind him, the man enters carrying a suitcase and she supposes he’s back from visiting a patient.

“Is it interesting?” he asks, eyeing the book in her hands and taking a seat by the window. The light filters through the curtain and reflects on his ash and blond colored hair.

Abigail sits on her bed and closes the book. “Sometimes I want to be the Misfit, other times I think about what would have I done if I was in that car.” Out of all the Flannery O'Connor stories she read in the anthology, she likes _‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find’_ best. The story leads to a tragic end and she found that refreshing because good endings can be too sugar coated for the sake of selling stories and they are unrealistic most of the time.

“Survive,” he answers, taking the text in his hands and skipping some pages. “But I suggest you don’t show your preference for the murderer of the story to others. An unpopular opinion could be easily used in order to censor all your opinions. Especially on the subject about good versus evil.”

“There’s no good nor evil.” Her long eyelashes tremble as she speaks. “There are just lies and deceit.”

“That’s a grim outlook on the matter.” Hannibal leaves the book on the desk behind him and pushes it until it’s in the right spot where he wants it on the table. “But I agree.”

“Are you full of lies?” she asks, twiddling her fingers on her lap. She doesn’t know where that question came from but she doesn’t regret it. If he can push her buttons she can reciprocate. She’s starting to get tired of acting properly with her saviors as if they were untouchable gods.

“I have secrets.”

“So do I,” she answers resting her elbows on her knees.

The doctor looks into her eyes and for the first time she feels intimidated. She has never feared him, neither after what happened with Nicholas Boyle and the truth she learned that night about his nature and what he is. Neither during their talk in his kitchen about what she was forced to do to all those girls. Today is different. There’s something in his voice telling her that she’s stepping too far into his territory. She’s playing being an adult, an equal he can trust when in fact, she’s not. Their brief collaboration that occurred when she showed up with blood on her hands was only a coincidence. The corner of Hannibal’s lips curve upwards. “Bargaining with secrets to push mine out to the light is not a very wise move.”

“Agreeing with an eighteen year old on a dark outlook on life isn’t either.”

The doctor’s face remains unmoved. “Why?”

“Don’t you think that an older man connecting with a girl on a polemic topic when they’ve both faced death together isn’t laughable?”

Hannibal crosses his legs and tilts his head. “Are you afraid of the intimacy of what we did?”

He puts it in a way that makes her internally blush and feel cornered, but she keeps a cold air around her. Intimacy is a bold word to define what they are. If they _,_ undoubtedly, are _something_. She’s a monster who didn’t doubt to kill and he’s an accomplice with a very dubious identity she’s been trying to figure out. “No.”

“Then I see no problem in coming to terms on something with you. Even more,” The man pats the cover of the book on the desk. “Bailey had it coming.”

She smiles at this and it’s the first genuine smile she pulled since she left home. She can’t do it with Will no matter how much he tries to earn her trust and make her feel less miserable. He killed her father and even if he did her a favor, she’ll never forgive him for it. Because if someone had the right to kill him, that was _her_. Her father tormented her since the day she turned eleven and started to menstruate. That day Garrett Jacob Hobbs didn’t congratulate her like most parents do. He took a bottle of cheap whiskey, stormed out of the house and went to his hunting cabin. He didn’t show up until the following afternoon behaving as the same loving father he was before. Abigail was puzzled with the event but she never imagined that it would determinate the course of her life. Even after his death, he’s still there, haunting her in her dreams with the girls he has killed that she and her mother have consumed. And yet, after all the negative experiences she had with the human race she still opens the door to one of them. Hannibal Lecter is authentic; he doesn’t come with bullshit and speaks his mind.

“I want to get out of here. I don’t know where, but I want to go away. Leave the state, maybe the country.” She rests her chin on her fist and looks away, nowhere in particular. “Sometimes I just want to die,” she faintly murmurs. She truly doesn’t want to nor cares about the concept, but she enjoys worrying others because since she became ‘famous’ everybody’s expecting her to kill herself. _Idiots_. She speaks of it like if it was the most natural thing. Her voice is neutral as if she was counting money or reading a newspaper.

“ _Death is a dialogue between the spirit and the dust. ‘Dissolve,’ says Death. The Spirit, ‘Sir, I have another trust_.’" She turns to look at him with one raised eyebrow. “Emily Dickinson, not me,” he adds. 

She shakes her head. “It must be a really merry story.”

“A poem, actually. Next time I come I’ll bring it with me.” He almost looks excited when he says it. “If you want to escape from the world, you can stay in your own head when you want to detach yourself from reality. Build your own mind palace.” He has talked about it before and she has tried but every time she wanted to organize her ‘rooms’, she had to stop because most of her memories were connected to her family, and instead of having bright colorful walls, the rooms had blood splatters over a black painting. Hannibal picks up his suitcase and opens it. In between papers, there’s a copy of _The Scarlet Letter._ She’s at about to roll her eyes but she remembers that it would be rude and she doesn’t want to prod him too much with her antics. She might be young, but she’s learning when she can’t fuck up with a dangerous man. And that’s exactly what the good doctor is.

Abigail receives the book in her hands. “Do I truly have to…?”

“Have you read it?”

“No but I saw the movie,” she answers opening the novel and taking a quick look at it. Long and boring. The movie was okay but she’s never been too enthusiastic about reading. She also watched ‘Easy-A’ but she suspects that if she mentions it he’ll ridicule her for her poor cultural education.

“Give it a try.” Hannibal looks at the time and picks up his things. “I have a patient in a couple of hours. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you. I expect you’ll tell me your favorite passages in our future meeting.”

She offers him a forced smile and bids him farewell, watching the man’s luxurious coat and broad back as the last thing she sees before the door closes. Abigail looks at the book on the bed for a while before picking it up and leaving it on the desk. There’s not much to do and despite how much faith he has in her, she’s not going to do something for the sake of others. Perhaps he knows she won’t read it. Perhaps he wants her to know that he’s watching her every move, that if he asks her to do something it is expected that she immediately does it, like a good girl, a good daughter. That she owes him a lot and she must fulfill her duty as he commands her _. Fuck that_. Instead, she goes out to take some fresh air in the farthest corner of the gardens, away from the loonies and the nurses. Escaping would be ideal but… where? She doesn’t have a house anymore, she can’t go to Will’s nor Alana’s because she’d lock her for life. Hannibal’s out of question. He might understand it but he’ll probably think something stupid if she shows up again hidden in his office. That she’s dependent on him, that she can’t do anything without his help and that’s not true.

_Get away from me._

Eventually she returns to the dullness of her bedroom. The playroom would be the perfect place because it’s full of vegetables, but also hyperactive crazies. She has tried on several occasions to go there and watch TV but Mickey owns the remote and if anyone touches it he goes into a rage that has to be contained by four male nurses who take him back to his room. She tried reading too, but from time to time there’s someone going into a panic attack, psychosis or they simply distract her by repeating the same word over and over again facing the wall. The cherry on top was when she saw one of the inmates shitting on his own hand and looking at his feces as if they were made of gold. She closed the book, made her way to her room and never set food there again. 

That night she slept well, no nightmares and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s book stayed untouched over her desk.

…

“You didn’t even open it.” Hannibal’s sitting on his regular spot by the window running his fingers over the book cover.

“Didn’t have the time.” It’s been a week sitting there and the only ones who laid a finger on it were the nurses. Thankfully, Alice has been allocated into another wing so she’s safe for now, but Abigail knows that sooner or later she’ll return for more.

He seems disappointed but at the same time he’s obviously not surprised at her lack of interest. She wonders if he’ll punish her with something similar like Alice did but she suspects not. He’s a gentleman, he helped her at a crucial moment in her life and he seems truly concerned for her well being. Why? She doesn’t know.

The man gently leaves the book over the desk. “You seem off today. Is something the matter?”

As expected, he has noticed her trembling hands and the way she avoids the doctor’s gaze. Legs crossed, she sits on the bed and looks down at her palms. “No. I’m just tired.” She is, but her lips are sealed. Some moments pass in silence and Abigail plays with the seams of the comforter of her bed in a futile attempt to make him get bored of waiting for any reaction and leave her. But it looks like he doesn’t plan on leaving.

“I’m tired of being used,” she mutters.

“I imagine someone has demanded an exclusive with you.” Freddie Lounds’ name comes to his mind, of course, and it’s not hard to assume it. The gruesome story is too good to let it pass for any sensationalist publication. “You can stand for yourself and reject the offer. On the other hand, your experience may serve the purpose of making other young girls find their braveness and stand for their rights and-“

“Now I have to be an extreme _feminist_?” She puts some emphasis on the last word.

The man chuckles. “Considering my input on the matter, by doing that you’ll discard the role of becoming an object. Others will label you and make you believe that you are expected to have a ‘normal’ life, begin anew, marry, have children but still remain Abigail Hobbs, the victim.” _Victim_ , the word she hates. She’s a _survivor_ , not a victim. She’ll never be one as long as she lives.

“I’m not going to marry nor have children. Does that make me weird?” She has never thought about that. She’s just eighteen. Who does he think she is?

“You will remain a fighter without a partner, like Hestia.” The doctor takes out from the suitcase a Greek mythology book, its leather cover shows the pass of time and the many reads it had. “Here.” He opens it at a certain page and turns the book to her, showing a picture of a woman with a veil covering her abundant curls. Abigail takes a look at the engraving unimpressed. “Hestia rejected the marriage suits of Poseidon and Apollo, and swore herself to perpetual virginity. She thus rejected Aphrodite's values and became, to some extent, her chaste, domestic complementary, or antithesis,” he explains.

Abigail scrounges her nose. “I’ll always be remembered as the daughter of a monster.” She avoids the ‘virgin’ part. He’s no one to know something as private as that.

“She was also a fire goddess.” He faintly smiles, looking straight into her eyes. Abigail averts her gaze. Comparing her with a goddess is absolutely ridiculous and even if she can read between the lines, she’ll never accept to be seen as someone worth anyone’s attention. She committed crimes, she has lead many innocents to their deaths and she was glad at some extent that she did because by doing it she was able to see the sunlight of another day.

Hannibal leaves the book on the desk over The Scarlet Letter and stands up. He approaches the bed and she trembles, something she can’t control even if she doesn’t fear him. “On my next visit we’ll talk about your nightmares or whatever’s disturbing you.”

Her eyes widen and she forces herself to pretend nothing has happened relaxing at his words. As expected, he can detect something’s wrong. He’s a psychiatrist, reading minds is what he does. He can tell that she lied about it. “Yeah.”

Hannibal exits the room and she wraps her arms around her legs protectively.

Weeks pass and she hasn’t touched any of the books he has brought her. He has tried with Roman mythology, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, even poetry and nothing catches her attention.  She’s not in the mood for studying nor to please a man who’s attempting to distract her from the fact that she’s being confined in a place she hates. She denies every question he makes about her well being, only commenting some passages from her nightmares. Sometimes there are pleasant dreams but they always involve solitude. Lying on the grass in an empty field, sitting on her bed, walking down a lonely road. And the doctor listens and quotes philosophers, writers, poets and religious figures among others. At first she thought he was ignoring whatever she told him but she was quickly proven wrong when the man asked precise, incisive questions related to her opinions, and it feels good when someone sees you. He’s kind, attentive, but Alice’s secret is locked under seven keys. He still inquiries if she’s comfortable in the psychiatric facility and she replies with vague answers, mostly negatives about the food, boredom and the population of the institution, but never regarding the staff.

One day he brought his sketch pad and attempted to teach her how to draw. She couldn’t even draw a circle and make it look decent. The classes were a total fiasco and he stopped after she begged him several times to do it. She felt pathetic in comparison to his masterpieces and even if he encouraged her to practice, she was still disastrous. All his visits continued in the same fashion until one day he presents her an MP3 player.

“What’s in there?” she says as she studies the small yellow device.

“A compilation I made with a selection of my favorites. Classical.”

She takes a deep intake of breath and bites her lower lip. At least there won’t be more drawing. “Can I ask you a favor?”

Hannibal can see the irritation on her face and nods. “Of course.”

“Please, stop.”

One of the corners of the man’s mouth curls and he looks out at the window. “I will.”

He asks again how is she doing and if she needs something in particular. He’s stubborn and determined to get out of her the information she’s storing. But Abigail’s stubborn as well, so their conversations fall into power play. She slowly grows fond of his interest, even if she detests it from time to time. No one has ever cared so much about her like he does. Sometimes Abigail wants to hug him, other times she wants to hit him with his books and shout at him to leave her alone. He fills the space of a father, only that she doesn’t see him like that. He’ll never replace her own, especially for the fact that they are diametrically opposite and that she can’t see him as one. He’s a man, he’s a doctor, he’s her guardian. If he has the need to play daddy with her, he’ll hit his head against the wall.

Hannibal’s at about to put the storage device in the inner pocket of his jacket when she stops him, her small palm resting on his arm. “Wait.” She realizes then that this is the first time she touches him and it feels odd, even if there are layers of fabric between them. Abigail’s hand quickly retreats and he seems mildly surprised. “Leave it. I’m bored and Alana’s taste in music sucks.” She hasn’t used the gift cards because they are all for specific albums and artists. They are obviously presents from her friends who know what the woman likes and she detests the eighties rock bands she listens.

Hannibal takes the player out to put it in her hand and his fingers brush against her palm. She closes it quickly and places it on her lap as if his skin was made of lava. There’s an awkward silence and bravely, she decides to look up into his eyes only to find that he was already staring at her. “Thank you.”

“I suggest you listen to it in the darkness, before sleep finds you.” He can be a weirdo sometimes but what he says makes sense. Music is more enjoyable when you want to relax and forget about your troubles and the disheartening reality that you’ll wake up in the morning and everything will be the same.  

“Is there opera in here too?” she asks, afraid that she’ll have to listen to women screaming in other languages.

“No. Just instrumental music.” He picks up his coat from the chair by the window, neatly folded as he usually leaves it. Abigail’s cerulean eyes follow his form until he leaves her and she’s alone once more. She already misses his company. She began feeling like this and that’s dangerous. Abigail’s getting attached to someone that will forget her as soon as she leaves to find a job and live a monotonous life, when her ‘fame’ fades away and she becomes just another gray person in the world.

The MP3 player sits at her desk along with the books. She looks at them with a taint of sadness because he’s putting effort into convincing her to engage into something that could give her pleasure. Strangely so, she started enjoying more his company than finding other things to do in the meantime. She’s not a loner, but since the incidents back at home, she has avoided people as much as possible.

_Oh, what the hell._

Abigail puts the headphones on and presses play before lying on her back on the bed. The display says _‘J. S. Bach - Symphony 2 - Cello Suite No 1’_. Boring. _‘Antonio Vivaldi – Spring’_. Awful. She skips most of the fifty tracks he added to the mix until her ear catches a melody that sounds familiar. Bach again. She reads the title. _Jesus Bleibet Meine Freude_. A pity she doesn’t have internet or else she’d Google the title because she has definitely heard this song in a movie. As the piano echoes in her ears, she closes her eyes and her fingers tap on her thigh following the tempo. The melody is repetitive but soothing and for the first time in her life, she finds something pleasing besides Taylor Swift or The Kills. The song ends and she stares at the electronic device before pressing ‘loop’ and playing it again, and again, and again. A small smile creeps from her mouth.

…

The following day Hannibal returns, which is strange considering that the maximum he has visited her have been two days a week.  She asks him to take her for a walk because she’s sick of staying inside.

“Anything caught your interest in selection I left?” he asks while the brown and golden leaves creak under his polished black shoes.

She considers what to say before answering. If she tells him that she liked at least one of the pieces in the player, he’ll flood her with more music and soon he’ll start bugging her to read and draw once more. “No.”

Hannibal joins his hands at his back as they continue walking but he doesn’t show any sign of displeasure at her words. He must be used to see stubborn adolescents among his patients so dealing with Abigail mustn’t be any different. 

“Anyways, I want to keep it.” She wraps her arms around her frame and stops, looking away at the forest surrounding the complex.

Hannibal finally smiles, looking into the horizon and the line of trees in the distance. “You may.”

The girl bites her lower lip and looks down at her hands. “Why are you doing this?”

It takes him a few moments to reply, his gaze still fixed into the different shades of orange and purple on the clouds and the lights of dusk fading in the distance. “Curiosity.”

Abigail frowns. “About what?”

“We should get inside, it’s getting cold,” he suggests ignoring her question.

She chews her cheek and follows Hannibal. This is what she hates most of him. He can be a total asshole when he wants to. Dinner is at about to be served and he leaves with the promise of another visit soon. She watches the car leaving the facility from one of the windows at the lobby and remains there until the red lights of the Bentley disappear into the distance.

That night she decides to pick up one of his books, the mythology one because from the little she’s read in her literature classes at school, the stories involve treason, drama and weirdness. She runs her fingers on the cover and opens it. There, at the right top corner of the title page, she sees a pair of initials written with black ink: ‘ _H. L_.’ She starts reading but she can’t concentrate, there’s something missing. Abigail picks up the MP3 player and begins to read again with the classical sounds in her ears. Her eyes move from sentence to sentence and the flow of the stories is different. At first she reads slowly, trying to remember the names and the pictures of the gods’ genealogy trees. After a couple of minutes she’s reading faster and her concentration is absolute. When her eyes start hurting, she looks at her wristwatch. Three A. M.

…

The story repeats itself, only that Alice doesn’t notice when Abigail picks up her headphones while the woman gives her oral in the darkness of her bedroom. Her mind travels with the melody and she doesn’t feel anything anymore. She’s somewhere else far, far away, eyes wide open as she looks at the ceiling, not even caring when is the nurse going to finish. She can’t touch her mind, it’s her safe haven. Alice might abuse her body but she will never reach what’s inside her.

Suddenly, she touches a place Abigail’s never felt before, on the top wall of her sex and the sensation sends a painful chill down her spine. Her eyes flutter closed while Bach continues caressing her ears and out of nowhere, a face starts forming in her mind. Strong shoulders, paisley tie, high cheekbones. Hannibal’s standing by the bed, watching her, just like he did when she touched him. Abigail swallows hard but she’s not ashamed of it. He’s watching her with a soft smile on his lips approvingly. Her eyes shot open for a moment and close again and this time Hannibal’s gone; he’s kneeling between her legs and watching her intently before burying his head against her slit.

Abigail hums and her clitoris twitches with the image imprinted in her mind. His hands are rough against the wet walls, he’s not being gentle. She could take her time to consider if he would be violent or soft with her but her body is demanding something else.

“More,” she begs and she panics when she realizes that it’s not him the one pleasuring her but the abuser she wants to kill. The woman stops and looks at her with a satisfied grin before returning to press her fingers back inside her. Abigail’s eyes close once more and another track begins to play. She’s breathing hard with the picture of the man tasting her, running his tongue over her sensitive spot, abusing her vulnerable state. It’s sick, twisted and it feels absolutely right. She knows she’s lying to herself, that he’s not in the room, that she’s fantasizing about an older man who could undoubtedly be her father and that she’s allowing Alice to think that she’s being good at what she does. But she pants and squirms and she can almost hear his husky voice telling her how good she is. Her legs flex and spread allowing her ( _him_ ) more access. Her feet are in mid air, there’s a thin sweat on her brow and her hand goes to one of her breasts. He feels so real. He’s dressed and she’s entirely nude, just for him. She comes with a shudder while she covers her mouth to silence her moans.

Alice leaves, sated, and she checks out her hair in the mirror on the wall. The imbecile thinks that she has conquered her, but Abigail’s thoughts are unreachable. She curls in a fetal position on her side and looks at the window, collecting her thoughts while she enjoys her post-orgasmic state. But it fades away when she no longer feels fingers, hands and tongue inside her. Reality hits her like a rock and she cries, muffling her sobbing against the pillow.

_He’s gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to:
> 
> * Wasthelure (http://wasthelure.tumblr.com) for being a fantastic Abigail roleplayer whose characterization inspired me to write this story. She's also my 'Abby consultant' to keep the character IC and consistent.  
> * daughterhobbs (http://daughterhobbs.tumblr.com) for beta'ing the chapters and correcting my grammar mistakes (English's not my first language).


	2. Chapter 2

The warm finger traces shapes on the foggy glass creating lands, faces, stars and hearts, typical expressions coming from a teen who’s bored out of her mind. He speaks, she doesn’t listen and but he doesn’t give up. He’s been rambling and asking questions for an hour now and she’s been replying with very basic information. A little more than ‘yeah’ or ‘no’. These are the days when she wants to be in bed and don’t leave her room, as much as she hates it. Days in which the sounds of the world can kill her ears when all she needs is silence. But she can’t escape from Will’s grasp, even if he perfectly knows she doesn’t trust him. Abigail finally turns around to face the profiler.

“I told you, everything’s fine.” She curls tighter on the sofa by the window at one of the recreational rooms and continues crafting her artwork with her digit. “You’re just being paranoid.”

Since the moment Will stepped into her room he detected something was wrong by the way she moves or who knows what goes through his mind when he does his ‘thing’ and gets into people’s minds without permission. He may be good at it, but her lying skills are superior. She has lied her entire life about her father’s activities and even afterwards to play the victim role. And they believed her. When she told him back then in her house that it wasn’t hard to deduce he’d have nightmares, she meant it but she never imagined he’d actually be like this. She has seen people who empathize with others and they are considered very nice but Will took that to the extreme. And even if people say it’s a ‘gift’, it doesn’t look like something anyone would like to possess. She doesn’t, for example.

He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “You haven’t answered my phone calls in weeks and your appointments with Alana are a complete waste of time. She told me you spend hours avoiding her questions and looking out at the window. I wouldn’t mind you telling me how am I supposed to think that you are doing fine.” Will’s voice remains low but he says the last through gritted teeth.

She scratches her nose and rests her temple on the frozen glass. “Haven’t you thought that I may be happier this way, without people poking at me like a monkey in a circus to dance for the public?”

“You are upset. Why?”

Abigail rolls her eyes to look at him. She’s upset, yes. Well, that was _genius_. “I told you. I want to be alone.”

Will’s approach of fatherhood is opposite to Hannibal’s. When the older man persuades, Will pushes her and Abigail obviously prefers the doctor before the profiler. Different tactics leading to different realities and of course, different treatment for each man. She actually doesn’t pick any of them for the task because she’s sick of having parents who think to know what’s best for her. Unexpectedly, Hannibal’s face comes to her mind and she remembers what happened last night. The girl blinks and licks her lips looking out of the window as the snow covers the trees and the paths leading to the building, focusing on something else before her thoughts can take her somewhere else again. Will is going to know too and that will be embarrassing. How is she going to face Hannibal when he comes to visit her again? How is he-

“Are you listening?”

With a sigh, she shifts position to sit properly on the couch. “I am.”

Will scratches his stubble and rests his elbows on his knees, bending forward on the chair. “Have you thought what are you going to do once you leave here?”

“If I ever leave,” she corrects.

“You will.”

Abigail hasn’t thought about it. All she wants is to stop seeing the faces she sees every day, sleep in that bed, lock herself in and wait. For what? For nothing. She’s screwed and everybody knows it. She’ll never become a useful member of society. She’ll never have someone to love her nor have a job and a normal life like Hannibal said some days ago. “You? Being optimistic about something?”

“I’m selective. I can choose which tree I want to bark at.” The man looks down at the linoleum floor.

“You’re obviously doing it to the wrong one.” She measures every word, just like she has learnt during her conversations with Hannibal. She allows him to see more of her than she does with Will. She doesn’t buy the good guy façade and she certainly believes he’s not like Hannibal but he’s no saint either. He has kept her secret with the doctor but she doesn’t know for how long. He’s, as Freddie told her, too unstable.

Will takes his glasses off and rubs his face with his palm. “Have you at least seen Hannibal?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at her for moment as if he was analyzing a crime scene to deduce the killer’s reasons for murdering the victim. He pretends to go beyond her shell, to make her feel guilty for giving him a hard time, he, one of the two men who can take her away from there. She has thought about the probabilities of leaving with Will but it’s impossible. Alana is still too influential on him and he will agree with her orthodox, ineffective methods.

“Are you eating well?” he asks, rubbing his palms together.

“Oh, please.” Her arms fall at both sides and she throws her head backwards. “What are you going to ask next? If I’m showering? How many times I go to the bathroom? If I have _friends_?”

Will puts his hands on his pockets and nods, his jaw is tight and his eyes avoiding hers. “Stay safe,” he murmurs before heading towards the door to exit the room with a slam. Everyone’s attention goes to the place where the loud sound came from and then back to her. Abigail sighs with relief. It’s been hard to convince him that nothing’s happening. But she knows that _he knows_ that something’s terribly wrong. He studied every employee that entered the playroom while they were together as if he was scanning them to find the littlest of flaws to point out and take her away. The fact is that as much as she wants to get out, the idea of being moved to another facility and repeat the whole story all over again is not something she looks forward to: getting used to a new room, avoiding troubles with the other patients and hoping the staff won’t rape her. She prefers to be here and leave some day instead of hopping from madhouse to madhouse.  She’ll always be a prisoner of her past no matter what she does or plans to do, what happens or how will she end her days. The future looks pitch black.

Alice’s becoming more creative. Her teeth are leaving marks on her inner thighs and suction marks on her breasts. In comparison, it was tolerable at first but the more she gets, the more she wants to take and the worse things look for Abigail. She doesn’t only come at night, she has taken her in the early hours of dawn before breakfast, waking her up with her hands pulling down her panties. At first she panicked but then she got used to it. Abigail put a dark veil on Hannibal’s face when the assaults take place because that time she felt filthy afterwards for associating something so disgusting with… him.

After every encounter, the girl scrubs her skin again and again in the shower until she can no longer smell the nurse’s scent on herself. But it’s never enough. It fills her nostrils for the rest of the day. It’s like when she killed Nicholas Boyle and the blood on her hands remained for a couple of days. It was a trick of her mind because Hannibal washed them with bleach and there was nothing left on her. But she could still feel him intoxicating her. The nurse’s violence is transforming the concept of sex for Abigail into a numb state in which she alienates herself from life and enters into a self-induced emotional coma.

Hannibal knocks twice at her door and waits until he gets Abigail’s approval to enter. She’s buttoning up her navy blue shirt with small orange flowers Alana gave her a week ago and she rushes to the door to allow him in. She’s been longing for his presence, the only good moment of her day in which she can be at ease with another mortal. “I’m sorry, I took a shower a minute ago,” her soaking wet ebony hair shinning in the morning light is the proof of it. The man smiles softly and walks in taking his coat off and leaving it on the chair.

“When did it start?” He’s facing the window, following the movements of the patients walking outside.

She blinks at the question. “What?”

“The abuse.”

Her throat goes dry. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around her body, shielding herself from him and anyone else who could see her transparently like the man did. “I don’t know wh-“ She doesn’t get to finish the phrase when Hannibal’s fingers are brushing the collar of her shirt gently away revealing a purple mark on her clavicle. She didn’t have the time to button it all the way up to conceal the marks as usual and he, of course, didn’t miss them. Her lower lip quivers and she lowers her face with her chin glued to her chest. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Show me.”

If she refuses, she’ll be betraying him and she has already done it by digging and leaving Boyle’s corpse out in the open to be discovered. One by one, Abigail’s shirt buttons pop open under trembling fingers. The contrast of the bruises against her pale skin are like the shadows on the moon surface.

“All of it.”

Abigail’s eyes go wide. He _knows_. “I… can’t.”

“I’m not going to touch you,” he says sitting at the edge of the bed.

She steps in front of him and her jeans go slowly down. Undressing for Alice is so much different than doing it for Hannibal and the torture of thinking of him sexually strikes her once more. Her teeth clatters when she makes a huge effort to not cry as she pushes her underwear off and steps out of it. She hasn’t had the time to shave and the dark short curls cover her mound. She closes her eyes as he watches her nude form. There’s a complete silence and she slowly opens her eyes. He examines the marks between her legs with a frown, and he reminds her of a doctor she had when she was little, when her childish body was nothing but a chubby bag of bones, muscle and tender skin. Hannibal doesn’t lay a finger on her, he simply asks her to move just a bit to take a better look at the many bite marks close to her sex. Alice has an obsession with her slit and its surroundings and some of the marks look very dark and some red, recent ones. On her breasts there are bruises at the sides and at the top, not over her nipples but she winces every time she touches them. His eyes narrow, he bites his upper lip and looks away. “Get dressed.”

The girl does as she’s told and it feels good to feel the fabric warming her skin once more. She sits besides him on the bed and looks at her hands. “Please don’t make me talk.”

“Who is it?” he asks, and she knows that he’s simply going to ignore her plead.

“Please, no. I don’t want…”

“Abigail.”

Her name on his lips has a magical effect on her, soothing and frightening at the same time. It’s amazing how a couple of letters thrown together can have a different meaning depending on who’s pronouncing them. She has her name registered in every voice she knows: her parents, friends, Will, Alana, Jack Crawford. But no one makes her feel the way he does when it happens. Abigail looks down at the wooden floor tired of pretending she’s fine, exhausted of wearing a mask. The man besides her understands what’s been going on and that’s much more than she could ever ask for. “One of the nurses. She does it whenever she wants. I… I can’t stop her.”

“What did she say to threaten you?” he asks and his voice is soft, almost like a whisper.

“That she’ll send me to Baltimore’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Everybody here knows that it’s hell and I prefer _this_ hell to that one.”

Men might be used to the abuse, but it’s harder for the female wing of the institution. Sometimes there are deaths with dubious circumstances and everybody knows the rumors surrounding the investigations. She’s not going to last a day there.

“It won’t happen. She has no authority nor the means to accomplish that.” He knows what he’s talking about but she can’t believe it. Fear is stronger than logic in her case.

“I’ll survive.”

“Not if I can prevent it.” He’s obviously talking about something that’s expected from a man that had no doubt in maneuvering a corpse.

Her hands quickly wrap around his arm and she doesn’t care if she’s trespassing boundaries. “No! Please, don’t!” The desperation isn’t something she can control like she does with her lies. “They are going to link me with her death, just like Crawford did with Nicholas Boyle. It will be too suspicious. Please, I beg you, don’t…”

It’s not like she can stop a killer, or at least that’s what she’s believing he is each passing day, but she can cry if she must to prevent something that will sink her more. He studies the distressed girl’s reaction and he apparently realizes that she does have a point. “I won’t.”

Abigail sighs of relief and let go, eyes fluttering and shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”

“But you can do something about it.” He’s always ahead and he obviously has a plan. “You can unmask her with the proper tactic and free yourself from her without blood on your hands.”

She suspects he has some cunning idea he created in a split of a second, something she considers extremely impressive and almost unbelievable. “Like what?”

They talk at about an hour about the setting and the actions to take. Abigail picks up every single detail forgetting her morals and fears as the man calmly explains what has to be done to release herself from Alice’s grasp. He’s precise with every idea and listens to the details she gives him to make it work.  It’s dirty but it’s worth it; she’s ready for the challenge and he trusts her, which is the most important after her peace of mind.

…

The encounters with Alice continue in the same fashion and the girl starts faking her orgasms to encourage the woman to visit her more often. She’s wilder and it’s not only Abigail’s legs that suffer the consequences but her ribs, arms and even her rear have bruises. She’s not using her headphones during the episodes any longer and begins to be vocal when she touches her. But Alice’s never satisfied, she always wants more.

And that’s what she gets.

One day she stares at her work on the young girl’s body smirking with delight before removing herself from between Abigail’s legs. Abigail’s not covering herself anymore after the abuse, she lays in bed and smiles, confident that the nurse will appreciate the gesture, and she does. She certainly does.

“I want to do it somewhere else.”

The woman squints as she considers her suggestion for a couple of minutes. She crosses her arms upon her chest. “Why?”

“I want you to fuck me where anyone can find us.” The girl sits up in bed and grins. “Places where no one will actually do it.” She looks at her nails with an air of superiority. “I’ve always thought about it but I’ve always been a chicken, you know.”

There’s doubt imprinted in Alice’s eyes. “Where?”

“The cleaning storage deposit.” Abigail smiles and slides her hand downwards spreading her reddish labia with her fingertips seductively. “Don’t you want this all open and wet for you?”

The woman can’t take her eyes off from the swollen pearl and the hot walls, licking her lips and considering the offer. “Tomorrow.”

Abigail curls her legs close to her chest and lifts her chin with a playful smile on her lips. “Tomorrow night.”

The nurse departs and as soon as the door’s closed the girl’s smile drastically fades and she covers her eyes with the heels of her hands. Maintaining the farce is harder than she imagined, especially when she has to show excitement every time the woman enters her room. Hannibal told her to not be herself, imagine she’s a prostitute seeking clients and show off her attributes. After the storm passes, Abigail takes a shower, rubs her fingertips over the sore fresh between her legs to check out the damage and she contains her nausea.

The following night, the complex falls in silence and she waits for her in her bedroom. She doesn’t knock, she enters and finds the girl waiting on her bed wearing only a long t-shirt and no underwear. For the first time since Alice began with her touches, she approaches and kisses her. The woman blinks and replies the kiss invading Abigail’s mouth with her vicious tongue. With extreme caution, they make it to the storage deposit without cameras and once inside Alice assaults her mouth and squeezes her breasts violently. Abigail moans and steps backwards until she hits the edge of a table, she jumps on it and spreads her legs wide. “Fuck me hard,” she says, eyes narrowed with a lustful expression trying to sound and look convincing. It takes her a lot to not stammer and look confident.

She attacks her with a fierceness she hasn’t experienced before and spends her good time abusing her and biting her shoulders. Alice’s very careful about where she leaves her marks, hidden spots concealed by layers of clothes. Abigail’s groin bucks against her mouth, just like Hannibal told her and the woman groans at the action. Listening to the man giving her sex advice was awkward. She wondered if that’s what he likes and she couldn’t prevent herself imagining how it would be to be in bed with him, but the thought was brushed away as she seriously concentrated on her task.

They end the night with a wink and a promise for a close encounter in the weekend because Alice has a couple of forced holidays since she never takes hers. A couple of days in peace. Abigail wonders if she’s abusing of other girls too, which is probably the truth.

The girl starts demanding more and she suggests more dangerous places to have sex. They visit the storage room again, and then the auditorium and the cafeteria. Abigail can’t stand it any longer and Hannibal gives her a lotion to calm the pain between her legs and soften the violence on her skin after nights and nights of continuous use. He asks if Alice did it every time he visits her but he touches the topic briefly, expecting her to inform him the basics and nothing else. They don’t talk much. She asks him to walk with her, sometimes he tells her the origin of some words, tales about gods and heroes, dishes he prepared and she barely listens. His mere presence is all she needs and one afternoon she leans against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

“I should have died.”

The man doesn’t move nor attempts to hold her back. “I disagree.”

He expects her to look at the bright side of her situation, that she will soon find the calm she desires and the only thing Abigail can think of is to have someone like him to rely on for the rest of her life. Because Hannibal’s not going to last forever and she fears to be alone, but she fears more the fact that it will happen against her wishes. She wants something he cannot give her so she cherishes his visits as if they were the last one. But she can’t show weakness to him. He sees her as a daughter and sometimes she wonders if he pretends to use her in the future. Their bizarre relationship has been sealed the moment they swore to keep each other’s secrets. She keeps him in her mind in a crystal box. She might use him as well in case of emergency. Tit for tat.

…

“You have to be kidding me.”

Abigail laughs and leaves the bed. “You heard me.”

Alice shakes her head. “It’s impossible. There are a hundred cameras watching you.”

“You might have not paid attention but I do. I look at them every day and there’s no way they can see us. Besides, nobody’s allowed to leave their room after ten. No one will see us in the corridor.” She fakes enthusiasm and her eyes are wide, bright with a pearly smile in her mouth.

“No.”

“Come on, just this time,” she begs with a pout. Abigail takes the nurse’s hands and leads her to the door. “I’ll let you fuck me with anything you want.”

The suggestion makes Alice chuckle but the moment she sees the serious expression on Abigail’s face she considers it. Hannibal has told her that in order to convince her, she’d have to offer her something she can’t refuse, such as the insertion of blunt objects in her vagina. The idea made Abigail’s hairs stand at the back of her neck and almost vomit but she understood that if she wanted to finish with the game, she’d have to do it. Dangerous eyes and smug smile appear on the woman’s face and she follows the girl’s lead to the spot. It’s a corner, an angle the cameras facing east can’t catch nor those positioned towards the north. Alice seems nervous but Abigail calms her a little when she curls her arms around her neck and smiles against her lips when she kisses her. Alice’s hand moves down over the girl’s groin and begins with her attack. Abigail covers her mouth pretending to silence her moaning and when she’s down sucking her clitoris. The young girl rests her cheek on her right over the wall: the fire alarm is almost within a hand’s reach. She makes herself sure Alice’s face is buried between her legs to distract her from what’s going on at the upper side of her body before squirming and thus, moving both towards the red button. Just a little more and…

The loud sirens hurt Abigail’s ears and she covers them with her palms. Alice panics and her face contorts, the fury and fear take possession of her. She gets up from the floor to wrap her hands round Abigail’s neck tightly. “You little slut!”

But it’s too late. Half of the patients left their rooms and in between the multitude, a familiar face comes into view: the facility’s director, whose eyes are at about to explode witnessing the scene; there are no doubts about what’s going on.

“Help, please!” Abigail’s face turns red because of the lack of air and she tries to push Alice off her. The man is petrified for a moment before he jumps on the nurse to release the girl from her deadly grip. Two male nurses aid him and Alice’s screaming while Abigail slides down resting her back on the wall and covering herself with her hands faking a state of shock. She must exaggerate it because nothing Alice has done surprises her anymore. Maria, one of relatively sane inmates approaches with a blanket and offers it to her. The act of solidarity fills Abigail’s eyes with tears and she starts crying aloud, trembling and wrapping her arms around herself tightly.

_It’s over._

…

There’s an obvious exchange of testimonies, Alice defending herself and claiming that it was all Abigail’s idea and Abigail showing her marks as proof of her brutality. The girl draws a slow smile when they tell her that the ex-nurse has been sent to BHSCI and that personnel will be strictly monitored to detect and report this kind of behavior. It turns out that she abused not only her but other seven girls who didn’t doubt to show their own marks as well. The down side of the whole matter is that Abigail’s more controlled now than before, and all the attention on her to check her mental state is a maddening. It took them a day to report Alana what happened because they wanted to give her a solution before the woman could sue them for negligence. The psychologist spends at least thirty minutes screaming at the director and threatening him with legal actions.

She showers her even more with gifts and sessions she doesn’t want because the nightmare is over and she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

“How did you come up with this idea?” she asks.

Abigail’s sure that she suspects of Hannibal but she’s not going to betray the only person who believed in her and kept her safe despite what she had to do. “I thought about it for months.”

Alana sighs and crosses her legs, sitting on one of the leather and metal chairs in the therapy room. “It was a very risky plan. You could have died.” She shakes her head and raises both eyebrows. “I simply find the situation unbelievable.”

 “Why, because I’m _stupid_?” Abigail snaps.

“No. Because it’s something that someone with high manipulative skills would have thought.”

The girl looks at her angrily. Not only she thinks she’s incapable of considering doing something as dangerous as that but she’s obviously accusing Hannibal of coming with the plan. Will’s incapable to even think about the possibility of forcing Abigail to enter the game pushing herself, suffering in the meantime, getting herself deep into something she can’t escape and face imminent death. Hannibal _believes in her_ , he knows what she’s capable of and he doesn’t doubt that she can be brave and clever despite her short age. He’s the only one she can trust. It’s a sad thought, to put your life in a killer’s hands because you have no friends, but it’s reality and she embraces it. “I don’t care. I did it and I’m fine now.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you show me the bruises?” she asks as the brunette’s hair spills down her shoulders.

“Because I was afraid.”

“Did Will or Hannibal know?” Her piercing blue eyes look at her suspiciously.

Abigail’s once more cornered but she doesn’t flinch giving her a straight answer. “No,” she says folding her arms on her chest. “And I wouldn’t tell them in a million years.”

Alana seems to buy the answer because they are males and it’s an embarrassing situation for abused girls, scared that they’ll be laughed at or be considered liars. Besides no one would show marks to men he barely knows, men who could have raped her as well. But she couldn’t and can’t hide anything from Hannibal. He’s a hawk; he sees it all and has the ability of reading her like an open book, something no one else can do.

The psychologist looks down at Abigail’s hands clasped together and hesitates before reaching out to rest hers on top. Abigail frowns upon it but doesn’t push her away, doing it wouldn’t be fair to someone who’s concerned about her. Despite Alana's failure at connecting with her, she does it with the best intentions. The woman purses her lips and smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Go and rest. I’ll approach with the topic to your guardians before they kill me for not informing them before.”

Abigail nods and forces a smile before they both leave the room and separate at the main hall. It takes her a while to sleep that night because she’s constantly looking at the door checking if a shadow stops and enters without permission. Three nights later she finally gets four hours of sleep and gradually she can rest knowing that she won’t see Alice ever again. She’s jumpy all the time and therapy is a waste of time. No one’s able to reach her now.

Except Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to:
> 
> * Wasthelure (http://wasthelure.tumblr.com) for being a fantastic Abigail roleplayer whose characterization inspired me to write this story. She's also my 'Abby consultant' to keep the character IC and consistent.  
> * daughterhobbs (http://daughterhobbs.tumblr.com) for beta'ing the chapters and correcting my grammar mistakes (English's not my first language).


	3. Chapter 3

An interrupted life of happiness by a father’s madness ought to influence deeply into your relationships in the future. The sensation is like a song in the back of your mind, one that you listen all the time despite how many efforts you do to try to erase it from your head. You sing other songs and it’s still there. Just like it happens with murder. You can pretend that the act of taking a life never happened, you can run from it, you can try to obliterate it from your brain, but it will always be there, persistently poisoning you. And you reject simple acts of kindness because you believe you’re not worth them anymore, because you see the victim’s face everywhere and there’s not a second in the day that you regret what you did. All of this, of course, comes from another victim’s point of view whose bloodthirsty nature’s still asleep into their unconscious and something triggers it to come to the light. And once Pandora’s box has been opened, you won’t like what’s inside or what comes out of it.

She listens to classical in her mind while Alana talks and Abigail’s face is luminous, a halo of calm covers her visage and her psychologist opens her mouth and talks but no words reach her. She returns to earth when the female doctor’s fingers snap in front of her eyes. “What?”

“I said that you need a hobby to focus on. Speaking of which, you’ve been too distracted since…” Alana’s visibly concerned about saying ‘since you were raped’. But she takes some courage and speaks at last. “The point is that you should get out more, try to socialize with someone even if it’s in here; yes, don’t look at me like that.”

The girl rests her cheek on her palm. “I’m perfectly fine.” She doesn’t even believe that.

Since the incident, Alana’s been showing up at the facility almost every day and tries he damnedest to do the impossible: help Abigail reinsert into society. Rape victims keep it all inside and when the time comes to see a specialist to treat them, it’s too late. But Abigail was incredibly brave considering what she’s done and the emotions still run wild under her skin. She got out because of Hannibal; she can’t forget it. Alana, still, is her doctor and sometimes Abigail feels bad for rejecting her so openly but she simply can’t find common ground in which they can make the doctor-patient relationship work. It’s like she tries too hard and she’s not ready to have an imitation of a friend, someone to trust. The brunette shakes her head. “You know I’ll start asking questions you’ll have to answer. I’m here to listen, not to judge you or tell you how you should live your life like.”

“You tell me what to do. As I see it, that’s just the same.” Abigail squints and bites her cheek.

“Right now you aren’t capable of determining what’s good for you because you’ve been forced to see and experience traumatic happenings that will distort your reality. Pain tends to do it and you can’t prevent it.” Alana rests her palms on her knees and observes her with concern on her features.

A few Scrabble pieces forming ‘incestuous’ rest on the table and Abigail plays with the ‘n’. She won the game with that word and she was proud of herself when her opponent looked at her as if she was spawned from hell. “You shouldn’t waste your time with me. Besides, I’m not going anywhere.”

All of their meetings have been like this and it reaches a point in which Abigail wants to push her out of the window to get rid of her. There has to be something that can satisfy both women without throwing sarcastic replies to each other but Abigail wants to take a very different road and as long as she continues being her shrink, she’s not going to change that. She doesn’t hate Alana but she doesn’t know what to do to with her either. She tries hard, she really does, to make herself likable when that’s in fact something that should naturally happen.

One of the nurses enters the room carrying a notepad and nodding to Alana. “She has visitors.”

Abigail’s eyes go wide and brighter than normal. It has to be him. After the incident with Alice, she couldn’t contain herself and the first time he saw him, she threw herself into his arms, hers wrapped around his neck and her tears wetting his rich plaid jacket. He barely combed her hair gently with his fingers but didn’t return the embrace. Perhaps he didn’t want her close anymore because she’s been used, perhaps he stopped seeing her as someone worth his consideration the moment he saw her naked and bruised. When the man enters the room, she offers him a soft smile and joins her hands on her lap to stop herself from leaving her chair and reaching towards him. “You’re early. Don’t you have patients today?” She’s being more daring when she talks with him and he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Later. I had to come and see how things are progressing,” he replies taking an empty chair besides Alana. There’s an air of ‘family’ she doesn’t approve but these people are all she has in the world right now. She’s a piranha in a sea of sharks and these two are protecting her from the bigger ones lurking around her, wanting to take a bite of her uniqueness. Still, she can bite. They shouldn’t forget that but their ignorance actually plays in her favor. She’s more than sure that Hannibal hasn’t taken her for granted, though.

“We’re doing… fine.” Alana smiles with her pink lips and her eyes crinkle just a bit. Today she’s radiant. Her red and black dress with asymmetric squares makes her figure look as if it was sculpted by the gods.

In a swift movement, the doctor crosses his legs and tilts his head. “Would you mind sharing that information with me?”

A smug smile adorns Alana’s lips. “Why, that’s unethical, doctor.”

“She’s a truly valuable patient and I’m interested in her recovery. Is there something wrong with it?”

Alana shakes her head and bends over for her former mentor without leaving her chair. “There are some details that can’t be shared even with one of her guardians.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrow a bit. “Secrets with me, Doctor Bloom?”

“I’m still here, you know.” Abigail’s voice comes out of nowhere like a thunder in the middle of a quiet night even if she doesn’t raise her volume.

Both adults turn to look at her quizzically. Hannibal clears his throat and Alana leaves her spot to pick up her thin suitcase. “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything, okay?” she says looking at her patient.

The girl tries to draw her most authentic smile but it’s hard. She nods and Alana’s high-heels clack on the gray floor as she exits the room. She rests a palm over Hannibal’s shoulder before leaving and Abigail sighs. _Why don’t you both get a goddamn room?_ But as soon as the door closes, the girl realizes that it was better if Alana was with them because now she and the man are alone in the awkwardness of silence. She was extremely affectionate that time when she clung to him and now everything’s supposed to go to normalcy. What’s normalcy between them? It always looks like they are walking around a boxing ring, measuring each other’s strengths and deciding who throws the first punch. He looks uninterested and she looks too eager today. Things should be like before he knew she was being raped and even if he helped her get rid of that nightmare, she’s sure he doesn’t see her with the same eyes as before. Perhaps she fucked up showing too much excitement to be with him and it shows. It surely annoys him.

In a futile attempt to keep herself calm, she decides to look at his feet. The dark brown shoes that match his paisley tie look brand new. “If you want a briefing of how I am, you can ask Alana.” _Well, that was smooth._

The doctor doesn’t comment on the sarcasm of her statement and he’s looking at her, searching for her eyes but she won’t react to it. “I actually like to get my information directly from the source.”

“Things are fine.”

“You need years of practice to lie to me, Abigail.”

She pauses and leaves the chair towards the window. “I want to get out of here, that’s nothing new. So yeah, things are fine,” she answers, scratching a little spot on the glass to remove it.

“Are you doing something to achieve your goal?” The man leaves his coat over Abigail’s empty chair and stands up as well.

“Like what? Escaping like the million times I did? It hasn’t proven to be effective, really.”

She suddenly feels a presence on her back that could either be protecting or threatening her. She doesn’t know when but the man got very close to her in a blink of an eye without making any sound. He’s silent like a thief and intimidating, but she remains just where she is, even if he’s too close for her own taste. His cheek approaches hers as he leans closer and looks out at the view of the window. “Like convincing Alana that you are more than capable to live on your own.”

“As if it was that simple.”

“It is, if you use your brain.”

For a moment she feels like he’s smelling her because he can feel his warm breath against her neck and her shoulders go tight, her spine straight and she tilts her head slightly to her left, leaving him more access, but he does nothing. _Fool_. He has a point, of course. “So what am I supposed to do? Create a whole new personality? She doesn’t trust me.”

“For starters, improve your lying skills.” At his words, Abigail turns to look at him incredulous and he’s walked away from her. “Create a successful Abigail no one would doubt. Be a good girl, open up to her.”

The girl chuckles and folds her arms upon her chest. “And do what? Tell her how my father was obsessed with me? She already knows that. There’s nothing new there.”

“Give her what she wants.”

It sounds simple for him and Abigail tries to read his mind, as impossible as the task may be. “So I tell her what she wants to hear. Then what?”

Hannibal raises both eyebrows, looking down at the floor with his hands in his pockets. “I thought you’d catch up on the plan faster,” he says as he steps closer. “She needs proof that you aren’t depressed, that you’re looking forward to go to college and to participate in therapeutic groups to share your story and encourage other girls to heal as well.”

“And when am I supposed to do this?”

“You can beg Alana to include you in those groups, express your need to help others, show her that you’re being fully aware of your worth to be useful. There are some here and I know you’ve tried but the experiences were unsuccessful because _you_ wanted them to be that way.” Hannibal closes the distance even more and looks down at her. “Do it again. Don’t try. Do it and be convincing this time.”

“She won’t let me get out of here with lies. She’ll know.”

“She won’t.” He speaks with confidence in his voice and that makes Abigail think about them in a way that she’s more than sure that it goes further than colleagues or friends or whatever. But it contradicts what’s happening now. He knows of Alana’s weaknesses and if he’s sharing them with her, it means that he’s actually expecting Abigail to not let him down. “If you use the right words and cease to look like a broken bird.”

Abigail grits her teeth. She wants to grab the sharpest object in the room and stab him for suggesting that she looks like a weakling. “I’m not broken.”

Hannibal looms over her, his almond shaped eyes watching her with disdain. “Then stop looking like it.”

She’s not going to cry. He’s prodding her for a reason and she knows it but her instincts tell her to curl in a ball in her bedroom and feel miserable. He knows she’ll do exactly the opposite because defying others is what she does best. “I’ll try.”

“This is the last time I say it because I hate to repeat myself: do it.” He sounds irritated, disappointed with her.

The art of pretense requires guts, tactics and cleverness to act according to the plan. She starts putting it in motion the following day when she shyly plays the game of being interested in others by asking Alana how was her day and telling her about her boring one. She makes it progressive because one personality can’t be forged in a single day, so in order to respect that she lets few droplets of that caring mindset fall slowly upon her psychologist’s psyche. Every night Abigail goes to bed scheming ideas and sometimes she even brainstorms with Hannibal to perfect her manipulative skills as if she was sharpening a sword. Alana starts taking notes, which is rare, and Abigail fears that she suspects something fishy going on regarding her acting. Is she going too fast? Impossible. Hannibal knows her better and he practically puts the words in her mouth to convince the woman, but most of her speech is hers alone.

“Are you sure of this?”

“Very. I feel like I need to do something. I can’t stand it here seeing how people are suffering and…” Abigail lowers her face and covers it with her palms for a few seconds before returning her attention back to Alana. “I want to help.”

Alana’s brow is furrowed but there’s the ghost of understanding in the way she looks at her, she’s considering it. “You need to heal before helping others.”

“I can do it,” the girl says nodding and she clenches her fists on her lap. “Please, let me do this. I also… would like if you could come with me.”

Abigail asking for something to her doctor makes the brunette leave her notebook on the table and draw a gentle expression on her face. The idea is to make her feel needed, important and respected; an unquestionably strong support for her recovery and it’s working so far. The girl steps with caution, controls her words and proceeds to open her mouth to let them go. She almost feels bad for using her so much but her liberation is at stake. Alana watches her for a long moment in silence and Abigail wonders if she’s trying to find the flaw to her plan. “Alright, we could try it again here. I need to see how you interact with the other patients before we move to other locations. It’s a test, yes but we have to make ourselves sure you are ready for it.”

It’s the most convincing smile she can offer and Abigail nods eagerly, full of excitement.

The day of the first meeting comes and the girl does a magnificent job. She’s good at pretending that she actually cares about the others’ experiences but slowly her human side can’t pretend to listen to what they say and she stands on their shoes. You can tell the difference between the victims that can’t rework their lives and gave up from the fighters, those who try to push away their fears and actually do something to improve their lives. She participates, expresses her opinion and listens attentively to each case. If influencing Alana was a challenge, working with others, one by one in order to make them believe her, is the hardest job she had so far. The days become weeks and the weeks into two months. She gets anxious and impatient whenever Hannibal’s around because he’s the only one she can truly reveal to. When she’s alone she curses, pulls from her hair and punches her bed in frustration but the following day she’s back to being the nice girl everybody expects her to be. She smiles most of the time, engages into activities with the others in the playroom, laughs and socializes without troubles. Yes, she became a good actress.

With Will things are different. He can see beyond the curtain of her theatre and tests her all the time to dig the truth out of her. The same lie goes with him too.

“How are the dogs? I wish we could have some here.” She swings her legs as she sits on the edge of the bed.

“Since when are you interested in my dogs? Or… in anyone but you?” he asks, standing by the desk.

The strikingly beautiful eyes remain calm. With a deep sigh she looks at the nightstand with a pile of books she got from Alana and Hannibal and curves her lips faintly. “To be honest, I think it was when I realized that there are others who had it worse than me. I don’t know, really. I think I learned how to listen and look where I’m standing.” _Careful, you’re being too mature._

“It’s not going to work with me.”

Her face drops. She knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Huh?”

“There’s a huge difference between fooling others and attempting to do it with me.” The tone of his voice is the usual but he starts pacing around the room like a caged fox and that unnerves her.

Time to play the fragile girl. “I don’t why you think that. I want to help, I want to feel useful, I want to forget who I was.”

Will hastily turns around to face her. “Do you also want to forget that you’ve killed a man?”

Thin lines form on her forehead as she frowns with a sorrowful expression and her eyes shine as the tears begin to form. “I haven’t forgotten about it. I know I have to live with that for the rest of my life. You’re being unfair to me. Please, you’re here to help me, right?” she says holding back a sob.

“I will if you begin being honest with me.”

She pulls her legs over the bed and hides her face behind her knees. Her features drastically change revealing contained anger but she closes her eyes, takes a deep intake of breath and forces herself to calm down before she can face him again. “I am. You’re the one who doesn’t want to believe me because you can’t stand me. I don’t even know why you are still my guardian,” she says almost in a whisper.

The effect her words produce on Will drives him to sit besides her on the bed. “If I couldn’t stand you, I wouldn’t be here.”

“But you think I’m a monster. That I’m a liar. If that’s what’s going to be like, I don’t want to see you anymore.” She rubs her apple colored cheeks, product of the heat in the room and her warm sweater, one that she got from a therapy ‘friend’.

He reaches out to rest his palm on her shoulder but Abigail flinches and pushes herself closer to the headboard. “Please, don’t touch me.” A little bit of her PTSD after her sexual attack does the magic: Will’s hand retreats and he looks terribly sad. He nods and leaves the bed.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t-“

“I don’t want to be with people who think I’m trash. I can’t stand it. I thought you wanted me to get better, I thought I could trust you, I…” The goddamn tears won’t come out. _Damn it._ “I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want you to hurt me like this!”

There’s shock in the profiler’s face and he carefully kneels besides her bed, devastated. “I don’t want you to think of me like that.”

“Get out!” Hopefully, her cries will attract the nurses in the proximities of the room but thankfully the man stands up and raises both hands protectively, giving up and walking towards the door. There are tears now in Abigail’s eyes and they are red and puffy, giving more realism to the scene. The man’s eyes move from one corner to the other of the room, unable to say anything else and finally, he leaves. The girl sighs and cracks her neck from one side to the other, relaxing and lying on the bed. He’s dangerous and the truth of her plan was almost out. He may not detect lies like Hannibal but he can tell when someone’s pretending. Also, he puts two plus two and easily deduces what’s going on. He’s definitely the rock obstructing her path. Abigail lies on her side and looks at the wall facing the door. There’s an emotion pushing its way forward and she fights it, but it’s there and it won’t go away: guilt.

…

“Everything set?”

“All unpacked and good.”

The apartment is small but more than enough for her. One bedroom, a large living-room/dining-room, kitchen, bathroom and a pretty decent closet. It wasn’t too hard to get because Alana helped her by being the guarantor and Abigail was able to afford it with her parent’s insurance. One of the very few things her father did thinking about her future. The rent is not too much and she has enough money to survive for now from selling the house with everything that was inside including the car. She promises she’ll start looking for a job as soon as possible, which she does and begins as a waitress at a restaurant. It’s not the best but it’s something.

She starts her psychology studies in University of Maryland with Alana’s blessing and approval. At first she was hard to convince because there were too many things to worry about at once and the woman thought that she’d end up stressed with so many responsibilities together. But she does her best effort to prove her wrong. Even if that means studying until five A. M. when she has to go to class at seven after a long night of work at the restaurant. But she manages. She had her inaugural dinner with Alana and Hannibal. Will was left apart. Alana tried to convince her to invite him in all the ways she could muster but it was impossible. She didn’t want to see him again and that was final. But when the three of them sat at the table, from time to time Abigail would look at the empty chair and remained in silence before returning to her guests’ conversation.

Her relationship with Hannibal is good but it feels awkward to see him visiting her in her place, the one she decorated and fixed according to her tastes and interests, allowing him to see a little more of herself. He also doesn’t visit her as much as he did at Port Haven and she can’t stop thinking that he lost interest in her after the abuse event. She believes that she’s boring now that she’s finally at peace. Perhaps he thinks that his job with her is done, that she doesn’t need him any longer.

If that’s the case, he’s _so wrong._

She has visited him twice in a month since she moved into the apartment and both times with Alana. If she felt like a third wheel before, now she feels like a complete bother. While they keep their conversations full of innuendos, sarcasm and boring topics, she plays with her food just to piss him off and drive his attention back at her. It worked once and she didn’t like the way he looked at her at all. It seemed like he was at about to stab her with the same knife she was holding. Abigail sighed and looked at her glass the rest of the evening, waiting for the night to be over.

…

“Alana told me you’re top of your class,” he says reclining his back on the white leather couch at the living-room.

The steam curls over the fine china (Hannibal’s gift) as she serves him tea and smiles. “I try.”

Today he’s wearing a black shirt with a bordeaux colored tie and dark gray three piece suit. The waistcoat defines his broad chest divinely and the colors make his sharp features stand out. He’s a beautiful man, there’s no doubt of that and he keeps his looks well despite his age. “False modesty is not your forte.”

She takes her cup between her hands and takes a sip, no sugar, just the tea alone because that way she can taste the real flavor of the infusion. That was, of course, another of Hannibal’s lessons. “Are you controlling me, doctor?”

“I’m taking pleasure in knowing that you are stepping on solid ground.” He closes his eyes inhaling the scent of the green tea and Abigail watches him enthralled. She now knows how he looks like when he sleeps or… kisses someone.

“Alana’s helping. I might need yours too someday.”

“Certainly.”

Having him in her domain feels strange. She should be able to do anything she wants with him and he’d comply because he’s a gentleman and because it’s her house and her rules. There are three decades separating them and still she doesn’t give a fuck about it. She’s been thinking a lot about the ‘what if’s’ and she had to stop herself from doing it because all the scenarios ended up looking like an idiotic romantic comedy. And their lives are far away from being comedic. “Will you stay for dinner?”

“No. I have a guest tonight,” he answers and Abigail’s stomach drops. A lover? A colleague?

_Both?_

“Oh, okay.” She picks up one of the macaroons he brought and rests her back on the couch.

“We have all the time in the world for us.”

Abigail’s eyelids tremble as she hears his words and she holds the pastry in mid air. She finally faces him. It’s like that sensation when everything and nothing has been said and it all remains in a bubble over your head that’s at about to explode. And you want it to explode because the pressure is too much, the air can be cut with a knife. She forces herself to not look down to his lips and her chest rises and falls faster than usual. She can hear her heartbeats in her ears and she wants to touch him, feel those thin, smooth lips against hers. But the bubble explodes when his eyes move to focus on his cup and he takes another sip. For how long have they been staring at each other? Seconds? Minutes?

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

…

The fruits are scarce, not to mention the meat. She’s getting tired of the microwave meals but she can’t afford more and the money runs fast. Nothing lasts forever and she’s learning now that moving on her own is not as easy as it seemed when she took the decision to go with it. Now the soda is water, the bread is gone, the wines Hannibal brings her are only reserved for when she has visitors and even when that happens, she has to spend almost half of what she earns on the mall to serve a decent meal for her guests. Which aren’t many, really. Just one or two college acquaintances, then Alana and Hannibal.

She got used to the routine well after three months. Thankfully she gets some food from the restaurant’s kitchen that she brings back home and that’s been happening a lot lately, making her coworkers gossip and talk behind her back. Sometimes when she leaves work at night she sees the homeless waiting at the McDonald’s back door until they throw the burgers the people didn’t want because they were too cold or they left half eaten. She witnesses this and she swears she’ll never, ever reach that point.

She starts looking for more jobs but they are all full time. But when her stomach begins to grumble and her energy to study at night drops radically she starts looking for anything that can accommodate to her college schedules. She talks with a million employers but when she tells them that she’s a student they frown and say ‘no’.

“If you want my advice, just take one of the dorms at campus.” Kristen is a good girl, perhaps too good for Abigail but so far she hasn’t ditched her like the others did because of her sarcasm, opinions or just because she thinks that most of the people at college are stupid. With a very few exceptions, like the Afro-American. 

After all she’s been through, Abigail has certain standards she will keep and no one will convince her of the contrary. “No. I like my place and I’ve earned it. I fucking did.”

“Yeah but you’re starving to pay the rent, girl. Just… think about it.”

The most she hates about the dorms is that she’ll have to socialize with someone with a probability of an eighty percent to be an asshole. She got used to sleeping in _her own bed_ , wake up and have breakfast in _her kitchen_ and study in _her_ living-room. “I can’t. I just want to…” _Never return to Port Haven again._ “Never mind.”

Kristen gets the message and doesn’t touch the topic again. “Anyways, someone’s been talking about you,” she informs taking a sip of her coke.

“Flash news.” Most have been asking about her scar and avoid her like a pest.

“Mark Doyle.” Abigail looks at her with a raised eyebrow, resting her forearms on the table. “The hottie who gets medieval with Dr. Roberts in our class.”

She truly doesn’t pay attention to anyone unless she decides they are interesting enough to talk with but not even that. She’s comfortable with being an antisocial because her experience with the psychiatric facility has left a mark on her and it will take a while to remove it. “Ah, yeah. He’s not that hot, really.”

“Are you serious? He’s so hot he’d melt the poles. Come on! Darren told me that he told him that you were cool.”

Abigail shakes her head. Some people forgot that they left high-school and that they are becoming adults now. “Right.” The girl suddenly straightens her back and looks at the clock in the kitchen. “Shit, I’m late,” she mumbles before running to her bedroom to get changed. “I’m sorry but you have to go. I’m late for work.”

“Oh, yeah. People will die if you don’t sell them the elixir of life,” Kristen teases as she walks towards Abigail’s bedroom.

“Someone has to do it so, shut up,” she jokes as she changes her jeans for her red pants, part of her uniform.

Minutes later she’s waving Kristen goodbye and waiting for the bus to go to the mall to stand for hours selling energy drinks. It’s really not what she’d have liked because it demands her to wear a smile twenty-four seven but it’s temporary and when she leaves she can make it to restaurant in time. She’s directly eating there now, taking bites from the dishes the customers left behind when she’s in the kitchen during her ten minutes break, but it’s not enough. Everything crumbles when she falls asleep in class and the professor wakes her up when the lecture is over.

She’s not even watching TV now and the only luxury she maintains is the internet service. Under the covers she checks her e-mails in bed and the doorbell rings. Waiting at the door is the only man she can rely on. Abigail wraps her arms around her breasts and nods at him, stepping aside and letting Hannibal in. She’s only wearing an old t-shirt, panties and socks but she doesn’t care; he has seen her worse. “Isn’t it a bit late for a visit?”

Hannibal’s eyes scan the house. There are books thrown everywhere, her mall uniform, the restaurant clothes hanging from a perch and an empty box of pizza over the small table opposite the TV. She doesn’t truly cares what he thinks of it, but then he walks to the kitchen and there, on top of the small counter, the pile of unpaid bills. Abigail freaks out and goes behind him but it’s too late, he already picked them and revises them one by one. There’s not much left to say.

“You can’t live like this,” he says leaving the papers on the table. Hannibal slowly turns on his heels and shakes his head. “This is not the life I expected you to live.”

She rubs her arms up and down and shrugs. “Well, I’m sorry but it’s what I got.”

The man takes off his coat and leaves it on one of the chairs before heading towards her bedroom. The girl frowns. What is he going to do there? And the answer is quickly replied when he returns to the kitchen with her laptop. He sits, enters into his home banking account and starts typing the numbers of the bills.

“Wait… what are you doing?” she asks, bending closer to look at the screen. But he doesn’t answer. Instead he pays all her bills without blinking and Abigail swallows when she sees the total of his income. The number has eight digits. She places her hand on top of his. “No.”

Hannibal stops and gently removes her pale hand off him. “I’m not going to allow this. I understand if you want to don’t to come and live with me, but from now on I’ll be supporting you financially.”

“No.”

“Your only concern will be to excel in your studies.” The doctor plays enter and another bill is paid. “It’s final.”

Abigail pulls a chair closer and watches as he continues typing numbers and erasing her problems just like that, with a click and pressing a button. She should be horrified of what’s going on because this is exactly the opposite of what she wanted, but she’ll have to swallow her pride and deal with it. She’ll be independent some day but not until she graduates and gets a decent job. Living off of him feels awful but living in poverty is even worse. She knows she’ll never be able to repay him for this. She gives up. He’s not a mortal. He’s a god. Her god.

 _Hers_.  


	4. Chapter 4

“That’s Chopin. “Right?”

The sound of the piano and the chopping of the vegetables take over the kitchen. Her thin fingers are stained red from slicing pepper bells and putting them into the frying pan along with the onions he’s cutting as well. Tonight she’s visiting Hannibal and she promised to cook for him but of course the doctor can’t leave her alone in his favorite spot in the house. A truce then was called over the matter and even if this upset Abigail, she agreed and they started preparing dinner together. There’s an air of domesticity she likes and it’s almost like when she used to cook with her parents. He mixes the ingredients with a spatula, just like her father did before all hell broke loose, but it’s different. Hannibal’s strong arms are meant for something else. They brought her back a life, they didn’t take it. Has he ever taken a life though? The doubts are practically zero.

The recipe looks complicated and she can’t even pronounce the name of what they’re cooking but she trusts his judgment. The sharp knife pauses when he’s at about to remove the excess fat from the beef and a slow smile grows on his features. “Yes.”

“Nocturne in e-flat major, opus 9 number 2.” She’s bragging now and turns around to look at him with a playful smile.

“I thought you hated it.”

“It was the only thing that kept me entertained. It’s decent.” She’ll never admit that she shares his love for classical music just to keep some of her ‘decency’ intact. She rolls up one of the sleeves of her dark orange shirt to prevent stains and Hannibal walks closer to help her to keep it in place. “Thank you.”

The legato melody progresses with elaborate decorative tones and trills while both resume their activities. “So,” he asks as he cuts the white matter off the meat, “is he your favorite?”

Abigail shakes her head. “Bach.”

His knife stops as the passionate segment of the piece begins, soft notes that ascend to a high register and is played forcefully in octaves until it reaches the loudest part of the piece with a fortissimo. Hannibal straightens up, relaxes his shoulders and looks pensive. “Mine as well.”

It’s quite fortunate that she’s not facing him at the moment because her thrilled expression would have given away her obvious delight. _Keep it, don’t go so fast._ They share the same favorite composer and considering it’s Hannibal Lecter we’re talking about, that’s a very convenient coincidence, not to mention a pleasant one. She truly likes his pieces but Chopin’s notes are good for the moment. Relaxing, dreamy. She goes further. “Goldberg Variations?”

Hannibal hisses as he cuts his finger losing his concentration and takes the knife to the sink with him to wash it. She’s highly surprised because someone as skilled as him getting cut must be a rarity. Did she say something improper? Is he upset? He sucks on his finger and Abigail stares. Her eyes are locked on the digit with his lips sucking it and suddenly she realizes that he’s watching her as well. Nervously, she returns to her task and her hands tremble, wishing the ground could swallow her at that precise moment. There’s a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Indeed,” he finally answers, still studying her like a marble statue. Abigail’s done cutting her vegetables and grabs another one to continue, even if it’s not necessary.

“I know it will sound stupid but who was Goldberg?”

“A great harpsichordist who lived in 1727.” The man continues slicing the meat with precision and covers them with basil and eggs. He mixes all the ingredients and covers the pieces with flour, kneading on the flesh gently. “He wrote Bach’s variations when he was fourteen because Count Keyserlingk asked him to do it in order to sleep. He was an insomniac.”

Abigail laughs softly approaching with the vegetables on the wooden cutting board and pours them into the mix with the meat, almost ready for consumption. “I need a Goldberg.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah. They are never the same, but I can manage.” She can’t, but showing weakness to him is not an option. She already feels little in his presence. All the time.

“I’m not Goldberg but I could record on the piano some of my favorite pieces for you. The harpsichord will be alien to your ears.”

“I’ve heard some harpsichord songs in the mix you left.” What’s with this niceness? Ridiculous, but nice. Abigail stares at his broad back resting her body against the sink and one palm pressed against the table by the sink. “Thank you but I already have a lot of those songs in the player.”

“It’d be different. But if you don’t want something of my making, I understand.”

Someone showing kindness to her is rare, that is, truly amiable such as reproducing something beautiful for her alone. Warmth invades her chest and she blinks before timidly answering. “I’d love to.”

She can’t see him, but she’s sure that he’s grinning. “You’re not used to random acts of kindness, are you?” he asks before taking a glass of wine and sipping from it. The red liquid reflects the light and it looks like blood.

“Not really. I mean, people are obviously scared of me.”

“Humans fear what they don’t understand, that’s nothing new. Showing yourself to others requires bravery and insanity for allowing others to see beyond the cover.” If that’s true, the man must be full of secrets. He doesn’t look like one who’d share his secrets with anyone, not his lovers, or his family, for the matter. Of course, she knows nothing of his family, but now’s not the time to ask.

Abigail takes her apron off and leaves it carefully folded on one of the modern metal chairs contrasting with the couches by the pantry’s door. “Insanity?”

“It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to be insane.” He stirs the contents of the frying pan and uses his fork to separate the vegetables from the meat so they can cook faster.  “Jumping into the abyss, to the unknown and taking the risk of being hurt is not sane, despite what society continuously tells us. Opening your heart to strangers is dangerous and only a madman would do it.”

“You say it as if you’ve been hurt a lot.”

“Like all. But we learn.”

“Do you think that I’ll make it? That I won’t end up being a failure?” she asks, running her fingers over the metal surface of the counter.

Hannibal removes the frying pan from the fire to look at her. His lips are barely curved upwards. “When someone has faith in you, half of the battle has been won.”

His words invade her mind and she lets it sink in before opening her mouth again. “Do you remember when we talked about trust when I dug Nicholas Boyle’s body out from the snow? You told me you had to trust me and you were afraid you couldn’t do it. What changed?”

Returning to the food, the man immediately replies. “You’ve evolved.”

She has but she can’t see much difference with the exception that she survived death twice. Physically with her father’s actions, emotionally with Alice’s doings. She wants to please him, to not let him down, and that’s almost an impossible task to surreptitiously keep. Her survival instinct demands her to conceal her real intentions to harden her shell and keep the venom off her body and mind. She has a body that’s been tainted, an intricate and ill set of mental channels that reply to certain stimuli, and of course a need to be needed. Someone to belong to, because she doesn’t belong anywhere anymore. It all looks like it’s the same since she woke up from a near death experience but it seems that the perception of life is different. She learned quite a lot of things since she woke up in hospital. Before, she didn’t have to look at what her father did. The horrors were left apart and if she didn’t have to witness the butchery of those girls, it was as if nothing had happened. But now she sees that life can be as fragile as crystal and it can be ended in a second. Men and women play God when in reality they are nothing more than scared mice trying to feel powerful. The real power comes from your skill and the passion of your decision to go beyond good and evil. She’s not like that.

Yet.

Dinner’s delicious as expected and she feels content that she was responsible of part of it. He seems pleased too, but he has done most of the cooking and of course, being the vain man he is, he had to ask how the food was when they started, as if she didn’t have anything to do with it. He doesn’t let any opportunity pass where he can show off. She doesn’t mind, even more, she likes that, because he deserves it.

She excuses herself to the bathroom after sharing a glass of wine in his office and when she returns his expression has changed. He’s holding his iPad and she approaches to see what he’s reading: the Chesapeake Ripper strikes again. A copycat, he supposes.

Abigail leaves his house and walks the ten blocks from his place to get back home. He chose the location when she bought the apartment and she suspects it was meant to keep an eye on her. It annoyed the girl because he just doesn’t get that he’s not his father. Or perhaps he had other intentions. _Nah_. The girl makes herself tea, one of the many blends he’s given her the day she moved. She explores more on the internet about Baroque before going to sleep and thinks about the young Goldberg and what he would have said to convince her of her worth.

…

The bus ride is boring. She gotten used to it and she doesn’t understand why people freak out so much when they have to use it. She carries a knife she bought at a craft fair just in case anything happens. It’s an antique with a wooden handle with carved flowers on it and even if it’s not new, it’s sharp and it even has a sheath to keep it safely concealed in her backpack. Some of the people she sees on the bus are the same every day but she doesn’t care about randomly saying ‘hi’ to anyone. Anyone could be suspicious. The public transportation can be dangerous if you don’t keep your eyes open, especially if you’re distracted with Domenico Scarlatti blasting in you iPhone’s headphones. Two blocks later, she exits the bus carrying her books and knocks on Hannibal’s door.

“Private classes won’t be available until Monday,” he teases with a semiserious voice.

She pouts and squints. “Not even for your favorite student?”

“I’m not teaching anymore,” he answers and steps aside to let her inside. Hannibal takes her books from her hands to put them on the living-room’s oak table.

“It smells delicious. What is it?” she asks walking behind him to the kitchen.

“Rack of lamb with an herb crust and vegetables,” he says as he puts the ribs on a large plate with flowers, fruits and spices. It looks _baroque_ , a word she learned from him and something she immediately googled when she returned back home. It turned out to be a whole historical period. Go figure.

They make it to the dining-room and she stops in her tracks when she registers a third plate. “Who’s coming?”

The doctor places the main course in the center of the table and cleans his hands, standing by it and admiring his work. “Alana. She should be…” His speech is interrupted by the doorbell. “There she is.”

Her face drops but she forces a smile before he leaves to open the door. She’s used to it being just the two of them and having a third party breaks their little routine. It shouldn’t matter, she doesn’t represent a threat for her. _Since when is she a threat for anything?_ Alana arrives and Abigail offers her a soft smile. “Hey.”

“Hello, Abigail.” Alana takes the right side of the table, the place where Abigail’s used to take, the place of honor, but she doesn’t comment on it. She sits on Hannibal’s left side and waits until the man starts serving the ribs. She’s starving. She avoids the cafeteria’s food as much as possible.  Since she started visiting Hannibal more often she has developed a finer palate.

“What’s that?” Alana asks tilting her chin up as if she was trying to identify the sounds coming from the stereo.

Before Hannibal can answer, Abigail quickly replies. “Joseph Haydn. One of the many he wrote.” There’s satisfaction and a smirk painted on the girl’s face. She has no problem in showing her superior knowledge in the matter and Hannibal draws a satisfied grin.

The woman raises both eyebrows and pats her lap. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, one of the most famous, actually.” She thoroughly enjoys pointing out the psychologist’s lack of knowledge, something that being a woman possessing such a high level of education (or at least that’s what Hannibal has told her) she should know.

“It’s beautiful,” the older woman says directing a smile to the man and ignoring Abigail, but it doesn’t last for long. “How’s Ed treating you?”

“Doctor Robertson? Decent. Like… he doesn’t take favorites.” Abigail begins with her meal and nods to Hannibal when he serves her a glass of red wine.

“Well, he did when I was studying with him. Not with me, of course but I saw some students following him like duckies with their mama.” Alana chuckles and picks up her fork and knife to begin tearing the meat away from the bones.

The comment’s not really polite for her peers, or anyone for the matter. Comparing people to submissive animals is just… wrong. Denigrating those who want to make it to the top is not what anyone would expect from a professional. Or perhaps Hannibal’s influencing her too much with his conceptions of good manners. “I’m sure you did it too.”

The brunette smiles and nods. “But I had the best. He didn’t see me like a duckie back then, did you?” she asks redirecting her attention to Hannibal.

“Doing it would have been an insult to your intelligence.” The doctor’s body slightly inclines towards her and that sends an alarm to Abigail she decides to ignore.

Alana’s plays the game, shamelessly. “And how did you see me?”

The wrinkles near his eyes are visible while he waits until he’s done with his bite and replies. “As someone I wouldn’t mind to keep close,” he says, an octave lower than his usual tone.

The girl swallows and clears her throat before taking a bite of her lamb and feels a pang in her chest. Of course, if he had to choose from all the women in the world, he would pick Alana. She’s clever, beautiful, polite, and that annoys Abigail. She’s too ‘nice’ with people and it looks unrealistic, like if she was wearing a mask of perfection all the time. Abigail’s mask is to protect herself from others, Alana’s to make herself be like-able, act flawless and show a strong character that could only be seen in fairy tales. The girl’s eyes are cast down, she has to make her move. “I bet you were the most popular girl in college.”

“Nah. It was all because of the rumors, that Hannibal and I were having an affair.” She picks up her glass of wine and her eyes never leave the doctor’s.

The alarm is back, and this time she can’t pretend it’s not there. “Perhaps you should have listened to the rumors and earned your grades without help,” the girl answers before taking a bite.

The woman breaks eye contact with her mentor to frown at her. “I did get my grades on my own.”

“That surely wasn’t the popular opinion.” She picks her fork and studies it as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Sleeping around can be very effective to get a job after college.”

“Abigail.”

Hannibal’s voice is soft but threatening. Alana’s grip on her knife tightens and she swallows, licking her lips and rests her back against the chair. “Socializing and showing random acts of maturity will get you ahead. Be it with college, professors, friends and when the time comes, employers. Students forget that they become adults when they start working to get good grades, deal with idiots who feel superior to others and tear their dreams away because of a stupid rumor. Fighting for your place is not a child’s game. You can shout, demand attention and direct your frustration to those who care about you, but that’s not going to help you at all if you want to improve. Quite the opposite, actually.”

It’s rare to see it in public, but Abigail gives Alana an deadly glare. “I don’t care about the rest. I’m myself. Take it or leave it.”

“Consider it advice from a friend. You have to control your anger and restructure your view about what’s truly important.” The woman shrugs and chews on another piece of lamb with a delicate balance of vegetables on top.

She might be her doctor but not her mom. What’s with this need of these people to take roles they weren’t assigned to? By a capricious move from life, she’s sitting at this table right now and enjoying a gourmet meal instead of awful hospital food, and yes, she is grateful for it but it doesn’t mean that she has to lower her head and nod to everything they tell her to do. Her mind tells her to be reasonable and accept their demands because they have their right after all they did for her, but her instincts do the entire contrary: fight, rebel against the delicate structure they set around her and find her own path.

“So, there’s this guy.” Her voice breaks the awkward silence after some moments. “I think he likes me.”

Hannibal pauses from chewing for a moment and swallows. “Oh.”

Alana seems to have forgotten their altercation and smiles at her. “Someone from your classes?”

“Yeah. We have a few together. He’s older.”

The woman seems pleased and rests her elbows on the table and her chin over her knuckles. Something that doesn’t follow etiquette, which means that if the doctor allows it, that makes Alana hold a higher place in the hierarchy of importance in Hannibal’s life. “How old?”

“Nineteen.” She tries to put some excitement in her voice to keep the lie going. It’s not entirely false because Mark Doyle is quite into her but she doesn’t pay attention to someone who loves to party. She’s deep into studying because Hannibal’s paying for everything and failing him is unacceptable. “He asked me out and we hang out. He’s nice.”

The man raises his chin to look at her. “Since when have you started seeing each other?”

Shoot. She has to invent a good lie because Hannibal’s surely going to make her life hell if he discovers that it’s all a fantasy. “Last week.”

“When? You’ve been visiting me almost every day.”

“In between classes and when I didn’t come here?”

“When, exactly?”

Abigail silently watches him and rests her cutlery over the table. She has to think quick. “Tuesday and Wednesday, and my free time after Introduction to Professional Practices.” She has never seen his judging eyes and lips press tight like this before.  He’s generally polite, caring and friendly and the girl internally smiles: it worked. “We’re going to a party this weekend.”

“I thought we were supposed to visit the Five Centuries of European Art exposition.” He hasn’t touched his food since she mentioned Mark’s name which means that he certainly considers the news shocking. It was going to be their first outing together and Abigail couldn’t wait to get there but since he decided to play with Alana tonight, she could bear a day without him. 

The girl shrugs. “Maybe some other time.”

“It’s a onetime exposition. They’ll display Anthony van Dyck’s paintings, as well as masterpieces by Frans Hals, Rembrandt van Rijn, and Jean Baptiste Siméon Chardin.” The painters’ names are almost hissed.

She tries her best to not smile and instead she looks down at her plate. “You could go with Alana, right?” she asks looking up to the brunette. “I’m sure you’ll have fun.” The woman nods but looks at Hannibal who’s visibly worked up. “Anyways… any advice from you guys?”

“Don’t rush it. Let him do all the work,” the woman replies swirling the contents of her glass.

Hannibal seems like he went back to his zen state and calmly returns to earth. “If he’s a true gentleman, he’ll wait until you’re ready for a relationship.”

Abigail frowns. “God, we’re just hanging out. I’m not going to have… babies with him or something.”

That apparently calms the doctor and his attitude significantly changes. He eats very slow, enjoying bite by bite as he usually does and with a delighted look. He leaves the talking to Alana and after a while it seems like he made up his mind. “I recommend you see him frequently. According to you, he sounds like he’s a good boy.”

“No, no, she has to make it the girl way.” The woman leans slightly over the table and grins. “No text messages until he sends you one, no waiting for him anywhere. He has to wait for you.”

The shiny knife slices the cooked meat while the chords of Bach’s sonata in F minor for violin and harpsichord begins. “I feel like I’m an uninvited guest to this table because you’re sharing your feminine secrets on courting. I shouldn’t know this kind of information,” he teases. “But yes, I agree with you.”

Abigail imitates him by cutting her own dish. “So, you’re okay with this?” Either he’s performing or he’s serious, she can’t tell.

“Absolutely. You need to socialize more,” Hannibal comments while he serves Alana another piece. “I suggest you demand of him to take you somewhere else besides campus. I’m old fashioned in this but I suppose the movies would be a good place to start.”

Abigail nods, finishes her meal and waits until the adults are done. Well, that didn’t go as planned. She was expecting him to make a scene and forbid her from seeing Mark or start making examples of how awful dates can go with a pair of adolescents, that she might get pregnant, that he will leave her or whatever. But no, he’s playing the ‘good dad’ part which annoys her to no end.

Dessert is served and the conversation between Abigail and the two adults is practically non-existent, they are too engaged in Alana’s patients and memories from when she was a student. It’s Hannibal who picks that last topic and goes with it again and again. Even Alana’s surprised at it. Afterwards, she takes the dishes to the kitchen while her doctor excuses herself to the restroom. Abigail’s attention is on the plates as she washes them but she also sees Hannibal drying them from the corner of her eye. There’s an absolute silence and she wonders if he’s upset with her because he knows she’s been lying.

“No one’s going to pick me. I’m not normal,” she says breaking the silence.

“Normal is an overrated word. You should have known this by now,” he answers, with the china in his hand and leaving it on the table.

She shakes her head and sighs deeply. “You don’t know what it’s like to see people checking your scar every two seconds when you’re attempting to have a conversation.”

“They’ll get used to it and ignore it. There are many interesting things about you than a line carved in your neck.”

“I don’t think people would like to see the real me. And even if that happened, no one will want me. I’m ugly in comparison to the other models on campus.” Going to parties where alcohol makes people pretty must be the solution, indeed.

It takes her a second to realize the black curtain of hair is pushed back from her neck and masculine calloused fingers start stroking her skin gently. She freezes. Even if it’s him, someone touching her is not welcomed yet. She goes rigid but slowly relaxes under his attentions. Abigail continues washing the dishes, pretending that nothing’s happening when in fact she’s completely aware of the intimacy of his action. “Allow me to digress. No one will stop wanting you because of a scar.”

Her eyes finally meet his as she turns to face him. “If that was true, I’d be with the one I want right now.”

His fingers don’t cease to caress her and Abigail fights her urges to not lean into his touch. No words are pronounced and she imagines that it’s better this way. Anything she might say right now it’s going to sound stupid because her brain has just stopped working.

“When I was younger than you I fell in love and it was something that wasn’t socially accepted. I didn’t doubt to express my feelings to her even if I knew I’d be rejected. Some time later I was proven wrong, but it didn’t end positively.” His hand finally drops and she already misses the contact.

“Who was she?” Or him, for the matter. Because someone who knows how to cook, play instruments, has an impeccable fashion style and draws, by the standards of society, must be gay. She doubts if he’s bisexual or not but she goes for the default just in case.

“My aunt, Lady Murasaki. I loved her, but time helped me realize that I don’t regret anything of what we did and that I should have waited until she was ready for me.” Hannibal reaches to push a few strands of hair behind her ear. “You need to learn to be patient.”

Learning about his long lost love is like discovering an untouched Egyptian tomb in the middle of nowhere. It’s very personal information and if he’s sharing it, she must have been very precious to him. There’s no way in hell he’d share this with someone like a patient, or a friend or even Alana. She suspects the woman doesn’t know about it and that makes her feel special. She is special, after all. He has given her much more than any other man or woman did in her short life. He knows her like the palm of his hand. He’s the only one she can see as a man and who cares about being patient now. His touch, his words, his presence alone, is maddening. The kitchen slowly fades into the background, she can only look deep into his mahogany eyes and she’s no longer afraid. Slowly, she approaches until his face eclipses hers and Abigail’s lips press on his.

She can smell his cologne, feel the soft mouth and the very, almost imperceptible stubble against her chin. Abigail closes her eyes and doesn’t move from her spot. This is her very first kiss, because the people she fooled around with don’t count at all. This is Hannibal, this is a real man, not just a fantasy, he’s the one she needs. He’s the only one that counts, the only one that ever counted. Her eyelids tremble and she’s afraid to open her eyes and see his, afraid that he might not be feeling it and that he might reject her. He doesn’t answer to the touch but he doesn’t push her away either. Perhaps that’s a good sign. Abigail hesitantly pulls back until their wet lips detach from the others smoothly. This is the moment when technically he should come for a second kiss but it doesn’t occur and she starts panicking. Abigail’s eyes open gradually and he’s wearing the same expression he had before. It didn’t affect him. It was useless.

A moment like this should be intense, and she has imagined him taking her in his arms and devouring her mouth but that was just as fake as a castle in the sky. A child’s dream. A fool’s delusion. She takes a step back and remains silent, licking her lips and relishing the taste of his mouth. His face is unreadable, he’s not upset but he’s not glad she did what she did either.

“I’m going now. Would you like me to drive you, Abigail?”

Alana’s voice makes the moment vanish as the girl breaks off from the trance and looks quickly at her feet. Hannibal returns to the dishes and Abigail looks at his shoulder, disappointed. “No,” she answers returning her attention to Alana, who’s now wearing a puzzled expression. Her blue eyes narrow. Her angular face shows concern but also horror. She knows _something_ has happened. “I’ll walk. I want to walk. Thank you, anyways.”

The woman nods and leaves once more to the dining-room to pick up her coat and purse and the girl’s gaze returns to the man. “I…”

“You should go back home.” The last dish rests on top of the others and he doesn’t even look back at her. “It’s late.”

She walks fast down Hannibal’s street and presses her books against her chest as if they were a loving friend comforting her. The wind is strong and she’s cold, but she doesn’t truly feel anything anymore. She doesn’t greet Louie at the apartment building’s door and she stares at the metal door of the elevator while the emptiness begins to take over. She’s not going to cry, but that doesn’t mean that she’ll get any sleep tonight. Physical or emotional pain is nothing in comparison to this. Rejection is the worst feeling in the world, loneliness, deception and insane amounts of hurt.

She grabs her pillow and holds it tight.

She’ll always be alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to: 
> 
> * Wasthelure (http://wasthelure.tumblr.com) for being a fantastic Abigail roleplayer whose characterization inspired me to write this story. She's also my 'Abby consultant' to keep the character IC and consistent.  
> * Lionessamiele (http://lionessamiele.tumblr.com/) for her kindness and dedication to beta this chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

Mark’s not that bad.

Really.

After Hannibal’s rejection, anything that was thrown at her was good enough to forget the shameful moment she had in his house. The difference being, she won’t simply accept just any fish in the sea to make up for being pushed aside like a piece rotten fruit. Something she undoubtedly is, or else he would have gone with the feeling and things would be much more different now. Hannibal’s morals are quite different from the rest, at least from the little she has seen of him, and that’s one of the things she likes. He has a mix of a bohemian and an old fashioned gentleman, fascinating and exceptional. Kissing a girl one third his age to begin an affair shouldn’t be a problem for him. If that’s the case then, what went wrong? The only thing she can think of is that there’s something wrong with her, which, of course, is absolutely logical. And who better to judge the kind of person she is, and her nature?

That brings us to Mark. Poor, blond, blue eyed Mark who didn’t know what to do when she kissed him in the middle of the cafeteria during lunch. It was all because he told her that he liked her t-shirt. It was one of those things you can’t think of and Abigail was still so upset that she had to do something or she’d explode.

Losing her virginity was something quite different from what other girls told her. In their tales they’d mention how special it was, how afraid they were and how sweet the guy was. Which was exactly the opposite of what happened. For her, doing it was nothing but a formality. She laid on her back, looked at the ceiling, then down to see the boy’s cock while he rolled the condom on his member and then back up until he was done.  As for pleasure… she didn’t reach her orgasm. She faked it, because you are supposed to moan when it happens, but the act itself was empty for her. When he lay besides her, she laughed and closed her eyes. _That’s it?_ What was the big deal of doing it? What was she expecting? A big explosion of fireworks up in the sky, romantic music in the background or the most beautiful words murmured in her ears? The only thing she got were grunts of a 160 pound male on top of her.  When he was done, she felt a wetness between her legs and touched her entrance with a finger to discover blood, her blood marking the end of her childhood. She stared at it, thinking what Hannibal would have done in a moment like this. Probably nothing. Ask her to wash herself and leave. At least Mark didn’t freak out when he saw her blood and allowed her to sleep with him for the rest of the night. At first she pressed against him as the protocol suggests but once he was asleep she curled on her side staring at the moonlight reflected on the wall of his dorm.

Truth to be told, she did it on a whim. Perhaps to prove something to herself? She doesn’t know. Maybe she needed some sort of affection, something positive after so much shit that’s been going on lately, but it didn’t really work. She was still feeling as empty as before. She didn’t go to Hannibal’s house for a week and half, and on Wednesday afternoon, she sees his number on her phone with the stupid photo she took him to use as a profile picture. He looks impassive as usual, enigmatic and a fine example of hedonism.

“Yes?” she answers, waiting until Kristen’s done returning books to the library.

“Hello, Abigail. I was wondering if you’d like to come for dinner tomorrow night.” His voice is casual, not distant nor warm.

“Can’t. I have a date.” _Bullshit_.

“Oh. Is it that boy?”

“Mark. We’re dating.”

There’s a long pause at the other side of the line. “You could bring him too. You know I generally make too much food. Besides, it’d be a pleasure to finally meet him.”

She chews on her lower lip and waves to her friend to show her where she is. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” 

“I don’t consider it that way. Besides, I haven’t seen you in a while.” She can almost picture him leaning back relaxed on the swivel chair in his office, lightly turning, and if he was a girl, he’d be curling his hair with his fingers.

 _Son of a bitch_. “I guess.”

“Then come home and bring him too. I’ll be waiting for both of you at seven. Be on time, please. Good bye.” The line goes dead. She doesn’t even have time to answer properly and she ends up staring at her white phone with an ‘o’ frescoed on her mouth.

“Hey,” Kristen greets, and some of her short ebony braids fall close to her eyes. Abigail doesn’t reply. “Is something wrong?”

“N-nothing.”

“Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“It’s just… my guardian.” She’ll never call him ‘Hannibal’ or ‘Doctor Lecter’ in front of others. Just her guardian, because the other names are too personal and she keeps them for herself, like a prized possession that only she is allowed to covet.

Kristen’s shoulders fall and she tilts her head huffing. “Again? You’ve been talking about him all week. What’s wrong with him? Is he bothering you?”

“He wants Mark and me to go dinner with him.” Abigail locks and pockets her phone in her jeans.

“Uh… so…?”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Then tell him.”

“It’s not that easy, really.” It is actually, but she doesn’t have the guts to face him again after what happened. The fact that he called first means that he needs her for some sick reason, or that he wants something from her. _Probably the second._

“Look, from what you’ve told me about this guy, nothing with him seems easy. If he wasn’t your guardian I’d rate him 8 in my freak chart.”

Abigail laughs. “You’ll still do it, anyways.”

Of all the people she’s met at college, she can count on the fingers of one hand those who are not assholes and are in fact, good people. She has taken her studies seriously but sooner or later she’d have to socialize with someone and she was extremely picky as to whom. She was tempted to ask Kristen to be her roommate but Abigail has too many quirks on her own to tolerate someone else. She can’t tell what the future holds but whatever happens, she’ll be alone. No one would like to be with her. They might try, but they’d get tired of her in a week.

Abigail didn’t give Mark too many directions as to how to behave with Hannibal, mostly because she didn’t want to ruin the ‘surprise’ for the older man. The boy’s plain and sometimes not very polite but relatively good. He’s a very simpleminded guy who doesn’t truly care about his aspirations for his career and prefers to pick up girls instead of focusing in his studies. Which makes him the perfect candidate to annoy Hannibal to no end.

When they arrive, the doctor scans the boy as if he was using x-rays and compliments Abigail on her dress. It’s a simple white dress with crochet straps and cream colored details on the bodice. She’s wearing her hair tied up in a bun with a brooch with ivory details Alana gave her and a thin golden necklace with a small tear shaped fantasy gem. Mark’s just… Mark. He’s wearing jeans and a regular sweater, but at least he has nice shoes. She knows Hannibal’s smelling her when he takes her black bolero off her shoulders to hang it on the coat stand and she can’t stop herself from getting goosebumps all over her body.

“You’re majoring in Psychology as well, am I correct?” the man asks, fork in hand.

“Yes, sir.”

Intimidated by Hannibal’s presence, Mark drums his fingers over the table and Abigail, who’s sitting besides him, rests a palm over his hand, directing a broad smile to the older man. “He ranks pretty high in our classes.”

The doctor licks his lips, unimpressed. “I was top of my class when I was your age. I suppose this generation is… lethargic in regards to responsibility,” Hannibal comments before taking a taste of his Keufta stew, an Armenian recipe with lamb and sirloin.

“I suppose your education was privileged, quite different from our reality.” Abigail keeps her hand over Mark’s, who pauses from eating and looks down at his plate.

“I ate little to nothing because I studied day and night and was one of my professor’s assistants. He demanded from me great amounts of time.” Hannibal takes a mouthful of Zezads and looks into the distance, as if he was detecting every single ingredient in his dish and it was melting in his mouth. “I didn’t have time to go on dates.”

Abigail snorts. “No wonder you’re not married.”

Mark glances from Abigail to Hannibal like a tennis match. The girl’s eyes are fixed on the man’s and the doctor reacts to her stare with a stern one of his own. “I’m single by choice. Which isn’t a very interesting topic to discuss, truly,” he says holding his glass of wine to Mark with a charming smile. He’s quick to deflect when someone attempts to encroach on touchy topics of his life. She takes advantage of that, but if she gets into an argument, he’ll answer with vague comments about her own past and ruin everything. “So tell me, Mark, what are your plans with Abigail?”

The girl almost chokes on her Coke (Hannibal doesn’t allow her to drink wine in front of strangers) at the question. “You don’t have to answer,” she hurries to reply.

The boy purses his lips and swallows. “I er… we are going to the movies later.”

Hannibal laughs softly and Abigail covers her face with a palm at the display of idiocy. It’s obvious that the boy has to keep his mouth shut or else he won’t survive Hannibal. Again, he’s taking the father role which she despises, especially after the rejected kiss in the kitchen and the humiliation she put herself through. What’s the point in making Mark miserable if he doesn’t care about her?

“Your stew will get cold,” Hannibal points out nodding to the guest’s dish.

“Oh, yeah, I’m not hungry, sorry.” Abigail suspects Mark’s so nervous that he’ll get sick if he tries it.

The doctor’s face changes and he returns to his dish, taking a piece of lamb into his mouth. The offense has been blatant and that’s going to cost the boy, but surprisingly, Hannibal stops harassing her would be ‘boyfriend’ and the rest of dinner ensues with a relative calm. The doctor even asks him about his interests and behaves like a true gentleman when Mark answers ‘sports’ and begins commenting on what he likes most. Hannibal has a wide knowledge on every topic you can throw at him so of course, he has a basic idea of everything the young man tells him and gradually, Mark begins to relax. She’s not convinced by the forced camaraderie initiated by the older man. The doctor can’t fool her. She has observed him more than enough to know when his intentions are false. He’s doing it on purpose to make her nervous.

It’s time for dessert and Hannibal picks up the Baklava he prepared, continuing with the Armenian theme. As soon as he’s gone, Abigail approaches Mark’s side and kisses him. Her tongue goes straight into the nineteen year old’s mouth encouraging him to deepen the kiss, which he eagerly does after a few moments of hesitation. Soon, they are eating each other’s faces and when he tries to break it, she rests a palm over his cheek to kiss him again. _Wait… wait…_

Hannibal interrupts the scene clearing his throat and Abigail breaks off the kiss with a smile. He has seen it and his irritation is visible when he abruptly drops the knife on the floor and Mark retrieves it. He takes advantage of the distraction to meet her eyes with an air of superiority, as if the action doesn't make a dent on him. Hannibal can think whatever he wants, even that she’s in love with Mark. Of course, what she has with Mark’s not love but convenience and she imagines it’s the same from his end. He’s not a romantic, they hardly hang out together and they’ve had sex twice: the day she lost her virginity and two days ago.

She licks her lips and looks at the older man as he sits back on his chair, tasting Mark in her mouth. The doctor avoids her stare and dessert is served in silence. He’s not so enthusiastic to engage in a conversation with Mark anymore.

“You don’t love him,” he says from behind her. Abigail has taken the dishes to the kitchen, positive that Hannibal would follow.

The foam covers her hands as she starts washing the china and she smirks. He’s once again, too close to her. She can almost feel his breath against her cheek. “No, but that’s none of your business.”

He’s silent for a moment and picks up the dishcloth to dry the plates. “It is because I’m still your guardian and I’m logically concerned about your well being."

The dishes go from her hands directly to his and she avoids touching his fingers as much as possible. “Well, love’s not the reason I’m seeing him, if you have to know.”

“Then what reason would it be?”

“Well…” she takes a pause and rests her hand over the sink, turning to face him, her look pensive for a moment. “Since you’re eager to know, he’s great in bed.”

The smug smile on his lips could fool anyone into believing that nothing affects him, but she sees the way he holds the dish, how the veins in his hands are extremely visible from the sheer force of his grip. Her attention goes to the china which she pulls at and he allows her to hold it, loosening his grip on the dish. Decidedly, Abigail lets it fall to the floor crashing into a million pieces without tearing her eyes off him. She curves her red lips upwards mischievously. “Oops.”  The girl continues washing the rest ignoring him until she’s done and what’s left is up to Hannibal.

That night she and Mark have sex again and as usual, she doesn’t care that Mark's using her body. Her thoughts are somewhere else, remembering that unwanted kiss that was never meant to happen. Abigail closes her eyes and she can still see him in that kitchen, emotionless, impassive, icy.

…

The caramel’s slowly melting but that doesn’t stop the ants from continuing their work. _Odontomachus bauri_ are known for having the fastest moving predatory appendages within the animal kingdom and also eat much faster than others from the same genus, the jaws closing every 130 microseconds on average. They like honey and sugar like all ants, but they consume flesh as well. If the insect bites a human the subject will have an allergic reaction to the bite, but be gone within few hours. If a body has been exposed to them for several hours, the consequences could end in death.

There’s a small canal filled with water around the school seat to keep the ants at bay. Inside the circle on the ground, the remaining parts that haven’t been chopped off Mark Doyle’s corpse sit covered with a black mantle of ants. He’s naked, his arms are missing, his skin is red and bloated but his member is not between his legs: the boy’s holding his penis in his mouth. The perimeter’s been cordoned off but everybody’s seen him when the activity on campus began. Abigail was among them and she wasn’t as horrified as the rest. She’s seen this kind of horror before and not too far away from the scene is Will. He’s kneeling beside Mark’s corpse, his face is vacant. He’s imagining the murder scene and what the killer did, as well as the killer’s intentions. The profiler notices Abigail in the group of strangers when he opens his eyes again and walks towards her.

“You shouldn’t be on this side of the perimeter. They told me you knew him.” Will speaks but avoids her gaze. It’s like the first days when he couldn’t stare at anyone straight into their eyes.

“Yeah.” She holds her books tight to her chest and looks at the blue canvas surrounding the crime scene. “Who did it?”

Will takes her hand and pulls her from the crowd. He speaks with one of the police officers and walks with her to stand under an old tree nearby. “Not many suspects and you’ll surely be interrogated by Crawford himself. Alana’s on her way, she’s going to be present so… you’ll be safe.”

She’s never been safe, and proof of that was what happened at Port Haven. “I haven’t see him since yesterday afternoon.”

Will raises his hand and looks away. “Don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to… I just…”

Who knows what’s going through the man’s head but Abigail nods and respects his wishes. It’s awkward to talk with him after what happened in the psychiatric facility. She talks to him as if nothing has taken place, but something’s broken between the two. He still cares about her, that’s impossible to avoid and guilt once more invades her. Behind Will, Crawford’s frame approaches and she can tell he’s furious.

She’s going down. Another death connected to her. This is it. It’s the end of her recently obtained freedom.

“You’re coming with me. _Now_ ,” he says grabbing the girl’s arm and pulling her towards one of the cars. Abigail’s books fall on the wet grass and the last she sees of the scene is Will’s hazel eyes watching her with worry as they leave.

Alana’s already at Quantico and she and Crawford hold a private conversation that is not very private because their shouting can be heard from the corridor. After an hour of waiting, Abigail’s sent to one of the interrogation rooms with the special agent sitting opposite her at the table and Alana standing right behind him. They agreed to conduct the interrogation in her presence. The dark gray walls are oppressive, she feels like the air has escaped from her lungs and she’s drowning. She steels herself against the nausea.

“State what kind of relationship did you keep with him,” he shoots.

The girl holds her arm with her hand and looks at Alana who nods. “We were dating.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Yesterday afternoon, at around five or six.”

Crawford bites his upper lip and taps his papers with his pen. “Five or six? Choose one.”

“I don’t know… I don’t remember the time exactly.”

 _“Five or six?”_ he repeats.

With a shaky intake of breath she answers. “Five.”

“Were you alone with him?”

“Y-yes,” she answers with a weak voice.

“No one saw you with him? Not a friend, nobody?”

“No, I was alone with him. My friends were studying at the cafeteria.”

“How do you know that?” The man speaks with a dull tone, just like he does with every suspect he speaks with.

She looks down at the table to focus on something, his stare is too intense. “Because I texted them and they told me that.”

“We’ll check your phone for that,” he says and nods to the glass behind him. He’s sending directions to other people who are watching their conversation behind the polarized glass. Her stomach tightens at the idea of more people listening to her. “Where did you go after he left?”

“Home. I had to study for a test.” She could have lied telling him that she went to Hannibal’s house and then ask him to lie for her but she can’t owe him more than she already has. Besides, things didn’t end well last time they saw each other.

“Did anyone go with you?”

“No. I was alone.”

Crawford rubs his face with his hand. “Are you aware that you are the last person he saw and that you don’t have an alibi?”

“… yes.”

“Then give me something!” His fist connects with the table and Abigail jumps, panicking at the sound in the dead silence of the room. She can’t do her innocent act here. It’s one thing is to manipulate people, but another very different thing is to do it with Jack Crawford who’d be more than happy to send her to prison.

Alana approaches the table and rests a hand on it, leaning closer to her patient. “Did you make a stop on the way? Groceries? Bookstore? Something?”

Abigail shakes her head. She went straight home. “I took the bus.”

The psychologist’s face brightens. “We could ask the driver. Can you recognize him?”

The girl nods. It’s always the same. The fat guy with dark hair in the morning and the blond in the afternoon. She doesn’t know their names, though.

“This is the second time we have to ask you about a victim that died under suspicious circumstances with whom you were involved. What does that say to you?” Crawford asks and Abigail’s at the verge of tears.

“That she was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d highly appreciate if you stopped scaring my patient with suppositions. The bus driver has seen her and when they give their testimony you better apologize.”

Jack looks at Alana astounded. “I don’t have to.”

“Then she doesn’t have to remain here any longer. Let’s go, Abigail.” Fuming, Alana takes the girl out of the room and no one stops them. They have nothing concrete against her.

This is what she feared most when she left Port Haven. That something similar to what happened with Boyle would be repeated outside. Before this, her life would have been a normal adolescent’s and so many people ruined her life (and she has done it to others as well), people she knows too well. All of them haunt her and live with her every single day. Sometimes she can see Marissa’s face in the street as a stranger passes by and she has to look twice to make sure she’s not seeing a ghost, which, indeed, she is. It’s a large gallery of people who have touched her or she has touched to make her life impossibly miserable. The girl clasps her face between her hands and sobs, frightened, thinking about how many innocents will die because of her in the future. She sees no end in sight.

Will appears from the end of the corridor and she’s too distressed to pretend she doesn’t care about him anymore. Abigail runs towards the young man to hold onto him for dear life. Alana watches them reunite and the profiler wraps his arms around her, pressing the girl’s small frame against his chest. No words are necessary, until Alana approaches both.

“You need to rest. I’ll take you to Hannibal’s” she says resting a palm over Abigail’s shoulder.

“No.”

“I’ll be more than content to host you in my house for as much time as you need.”

The doctor’s voice startles her as he appears behind the group, his coat on his arm. He’s wearing a plaid suit of blood and brown, and hair is combed neatly as usual. She remains attached to Will. There’s an air around Hannibal she doesn’t like, something that keeps her alert. He scares her, and that’s something that terrifies her because it has never happened before. “I want to be alone.”

Alana intervenes trying to smooth out the situation. She has definitely noticed that something’s wrong with her patient. “It’s not the best, you need someone to look after you. Staying alone is not going to help. You can stay with me, if you wish.”

Abigail nods and lets go of Will. “I need to get clothes and some stuff.”

“Of course.”

She doesn’t look back at any of the men standing in the corridor as she leaves with Alana. She can feel their eyes on her back and the sensation doesn’t vanish until they reach her apartment. Jeans, a long sleeved t-shirt, socks, underwear and the MP3 player. They leave for her psychologist’s home, a large apartment on Fleet and Caroline Street, close to Little Italy. The decor is nothing like Hannibal’s. Some pastel tones mixed with bold colors, modern furniture and only a few plants to be seen. She doesn’t blame her, she couldn’t take care of a plant, the poor thing would be dead in a week.

“I don’t have a guest room but I can sleep in the sofa so-“

Abigail raises an eyebrow. “Please.”

The woman chuckles and gestures her to go to her bedroom.

She has a King sized bed and the girl takes the right side facing the large window. The street lights illuminate her face as she curls and grasps her pillow tightly. Alana falls asleep in a couple of minutes but Abigail takes much more longer to do it. Her thoughts are still on the crime scene and Mark’s mutilated body with Hannibal’s music in her ears. The killer had to put him to shame. But why? And she has the answer. The Chesapeake Ripper. Abigail reminds herself that no organs were removed. So, why him? It all leads to a single person. She stopped him when he was at about to kill Alice but she couldn’t do it this time. It’s not difficult to figure it out who’s behind this.

 _Him_.

…

“He was sweet and harmless.” She sits on his right, as usual. Tonight they are having pork, a very rebellious one he comments and she wonders what kind of conversations he has with his butcher when he purchases his meat. She accepted his invitation to dinner knowing that Mark’s death would be the main topic of the night.

“A horrible event,” Hannibal answers adding more bittersweet sauce to the piece he’s about to put into his mouth. “He had a great future ahead of him.”

Abigail hastily drops the cutlery on the table and shakes her head looking at him, the thin strands of hair moving like the waves of the sea. “And how would you know that?”

“He had ambition and seemed enthusiastic about his career.”

“Bullshit.”

He leaves his fork and knife on the table as well and his visage shows such peace that it perturbs her. “I fail to see your point.”

“He didn’t have to suffer. He was innocent.” Abigail’s voice trembles and she wants to slap him, to force the truth out of his mouth.

“We are all guilty of something.”

“Yeah? And what are you guilty of?” She was about to call him ‘Doctor Lecter’ but she’s afraid she’d irritate him by using his title, something she hasn’t done since she had breakfast for dinner at his house.

He takes his knife back with his hand and she looks at the shiny utensil. She’s not afraid but the action itself puts her in a state uneasiness. “Many things. We’re not what we think we are but the way we built ourselves. It doesn’t matter if we used all means possible to achieve what we wanted. The importance is that we did it. And as a man, I’m proud of what I am.”

Abigail’s silent during the rest of dinner. She has no doubts anymore. He’s the monster the world fears, and she should be horrified but she’s not. Monsters can blend with the rest of the mortals and when they clash with another they share things they don’t even realize until it’s too late. She’s bound to him for so many reasons she can’t even begin to count them. They are tied to each other, whether she likes it or not, and they resonate in unison, in perfect harmony. She looks down at her plate.

She knows.

She’s not eating pork.


	6. Chapter 6

Abigail’s alibi is, like Alana expected, strong enough to keep her out of the case. The blond bus driver, Tom, miraculously recognizes her (remarkably so, after seeing so many people every day) and she’s safe for now, but it doesn’t end there. Jack Crawford has called her at least three times in the last week to push her into giving more details of her relationship with Mark. There’s not much left to say, they didn’t know each other as much as the agent imagines. The problem is convincing him of that and every time Abigail replies ‘I don’t know’, the man gets more and more irritated with her. He wants her locked in, and he wants it now. This means that if things get nasty, she’ll have to seek refuge under Hannibal’s wing. Again.

It’s been almost two weeks since Mark’s death and she can’t get the image of his mutilated body out of her mind. She has visited Hannibal but not as often as she used to. There’s something in her chest close to sadness and frustration. Some days she sits on one of the benches by the harbor looking at the water gently moving and the boats incessantly leaving and arriving to destinations unknown. Abigail never had the time to stop and contemplate the events of her life and the circumstances have forced her to do so. If that means neglecting her studies and properly written essays, like she did when she started her classes, so be it. She stays for hours thinking about all the new characters that appeared in her life, her childhood memories and most importantly, what is she going to do from now on. Live with the guilt of the dead, or break the vicious circle and give herself to the Bureau confessing her crimes. Even then, they wouldn’t believe her and the lack of evidence. They’d send her to a psych ward because she’d be considered insane and delirious, probably not the BSHCI but still, she’d be confined for life. Perhaps that’s what she deserves and she starts questioning herself about everything. She blames herself for being born, for breathing, for living and being involved in a web of pain to which she does not truly belong. Is she guilty of how her life turned out? No. That was her father’s doing. Does she deserve to suffer because of all she did? Yes. Can she live with it? So far, life is proving to be that way, and the word ‘monster’ is suddenly too small to describe her. 

She needs affection, she craves it, but she doesn’t want to accept it. Because accepting it would mean that she’s stopped feeling guilty for practically everything and besides, she tried to approach someone who seemed to understand her but failed. Abigail hides her face against her knees and closes her eyes. _Why did he have to save her?_

In the quiet of her apartment, she checks her Facebook account, which she only opened because Kristen forced her. Many people left comments on Mark’s wall as a way to say goodbye.  Abigail finds the action extremely ridiculous but that’s the way people seem to work nowadays, leaving messages to an online website as if its owner could read it from the cosmos or wherever he is now. In fact, she doesn’t believe we go anywhere. We die and that’s it. That’s the end of everything. At least that what she has seen with all the people that were killed because of her and also the moment she stabbed Nicholas Boyle. They didn’t reincarnate anywhere, or ‘protect’ anyone from heaven, or go to hell. They were _just dead_. That’s it. A silent corpse with nothing left to say or do. None came back to life to tell you if there’s a light at the end of the tunnel or if we are simply disconnected from everything and shut down. She supposes it’s the latter.

She also reads a few messages telling Mark that he’s _‘better without the people who hurt him_ ’ or that he’s ‘ _at peace now without those who ruined his life’_ , clear references to Abigail. No one has left a single message on her wall with the exception of Kristen months ago sending her a game request for energy or golden coins or whatever the hell that means. She’s even unpopular on a stupid social network site. Great.

The doorbell rings and she jumps before putting her slippers on and heading to the door. She opens it and finds herself unable to react properly. “Hi.”

Will’s standing with a small transparent bowl with pastries in one hand and he offers it to her. “I didn’t know what to bring,” he muses. She nods and steps aside to let him in.

She leads him to the kitchen because he’s not Hannibal that needs to be treated like a king. Abigail puts some water on to boil to make tea, and wraps her arms around her frame, looking at his feet. “I didn’t thank you for what you did for me that time.”

The profiler frowns, confused. “What… time?”

“When Mark died.” She expects he deduces that his embrace was the difference between going insane or gaining a sense of calm in that moment.

Will nods and looks down at the table. The silence takes over until the kettle starts whistling and she pours the hot liquid into the white mugs with small roses decorating the porcelain. “I want to apologize.”

“No,” she starts. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I do. Not trusting you was stupid. I’m not… used to recognizing the difference between friend and foe; actually I’m pretty bad at it.  My lack of friends can tell you that,” he says with a chuckle.

“People are stupid.” She places both cups on the table and offers him sugar but he rejects it.

“People have the remarkable advantage of being able to reject others and not feel guilt immediately or a posteriori.” Will takes a sip of his tea and sighs deeply, holding the cup close to his reddish lips. “I’ve always found myself pushed aside like a disease because I opened myself to others and bumped against a wall.”

“As I said, people are stupid.” Abigail’s fingers tap against the polished surface of her cup and searches his eyes.

“They are simply selective, it happens to be that way, it’s inherent to the human race. It’s not their fault.” Will has a point, but her version of people is bitter anyways.

“Nature can be fought.” _Yeah, right, look who’s talking._

Will laughs softly and shakes his head before taking another sip of his tea. Abigail’s heart breaks when she sees him so defeated and lonely. She pushed him away when all he probably has is her. “You don’t even believe that.”

“No, not really,” she admits, opening the plastic box and taking one of the cupcakes. She takes a bite even if she’s not hungry just to not make him feel even worse. She smiles at it and munches. It’s actually delicious. “Where did you get them?”

“The bakery two blocks away from here.”

“Sweet.” They are not of the quality she’s come to expect since Hannibal has spoiled her with his cooking, but they’re nice. “You need to cook for me.”

The man laughs and his smile is soft, lips deftly stretch surrounded by short stubble. He looks very handsome when he smiles and as she’s about to point it out, she opts not to, sure he’d just brush the compliment away. She wonders why Alana hasn’t caught him yet. “You’re talking to the wrong guardian for that.”

“Nah,” she replies brightly with her mouth full, something she can only do with Will. Hannibal would turn her into sushi if she did that in front of him. _Hah, the irony_. “I want to try something you cook for me,” she requests with a cheeky grin.

“Then you’ll have to accept my invitation. I was going to ask you if you wanted to stay with me this weekend.”

She makes a noise with her tongue and rests her chin on her fist over the table. “And what are you going to cook then?”

The cup’s left on the table and Will purses his lips drawing a smile. “Italian, if that’s suits your taste.”

“Yum.” The truth is that she doesn’t have a favorite meal. Except for what… Hannibal prepares for her.

Will offers her a sheepish grin. “I hope I’ll be up to your expectations.”

The girl leaves the tea on the table and rests her palm over his hand. The profiler’s eyes go wide and he lifts his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He must be unused to this kind of touch but so is she, so the situation is simply revealing to both. She shrugs. “I’m not as sophisticated as Hannibal.”

“Speaking of the devil, you are spending a lot of time with him.” The profiler scratches his jaw and stares into the girl’s intense eyes.

It almost sounds like his statement is tainted with jealousy and in some way it must be, especially since she emotionally manipulated him into believing that he was of no use for her. “Yeah. He can deal with me. Which is not easy.” It looks like Will is ascertaining what she’s thinking but she simply smiles. “Anyways, yeah, I’m staying with you this weekend. I don’t know what we are going to do but, oh well.”

“We could go fishing,” he suggests.

Abigail laughs. “I’m sure I’ll suck at it.”

“Not if you have the most outstanding teacher of them all.” Pride is very rare in him but it’s nice to see confidence in the man. “I’ll pick you up between eight and eight thirty tomorrow.”

“Alright.” And the event is sealed with a smile they both share.

The rest of the afternoon is spent selecting what is she going to wear. Some old clothes to go fishing, something more decent to stay indoors and something fancier in case Will decides to go out for dinner, which she suspects won’t happen. She has never been in his house so the event will be quite important for both of them. She must behave and respect him. If she has to be honest with herself, Will fills the father role better than Hannibal does. It’s impossible to see the doctor as one when she’s confused with craving for him and pursuing something else. Will’s caring, he worries about her without being pushy all the time and respects her boundaries.

The phone rings and she sighs as she sees the caller ID’s number. “Hi.”

“Good evening. I have a proposition to make. Dinner in my house this Saturday.” Hannibal’s voice sounds husky, almost seductive and she licks her lips unconsciously as if he was standing right in front of her.

She sits on the couch and lies on her back crossing her legs over the white leather. “I’m staying at Will’s this weekend, I’m sorry.”

A pause before he speaks again. “I could host another guest, especially if we’re talking about Will. I’d be more than pleased to have you both with me.”

Words get stuck in her throat and she tries to find a proper way to reply in a manner that won’t annoy him. “I’m sorry but we need this weekend for us. It’s special.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“I want some time with him after what happened. Call it bonding, call it whatever you want. I just…” She pauses and looks at the LED TV screen he bought for her. “I want to be alone with him.”

“I see.” Hannibal’s not a man that handles rejection well but he has to learn that one of these days. The world doesn’t revolve around him, for fuck’s sake. Is that disappointment she hears? She’s almost glad to turn him down.

“So, yeah. I also don’t know if I’m going this week for dinner. I have an exam on Thursday.” A lie. It’s fun to irritate him.

A hum at the other side of the line. “Understandable. I’ll leave you now to mind your own business. You must be busy.”

Denying it would be stupid. “Kinda.”

“Good night,” he says and she doesn’t have the time to answer because he abruptly ends the conversation. He always does it when he’s upset and Abigail’s getting used to it. The girl locks the phone and looks at the crystal screen. Should she call him again to apologize? Not in a million years.

…

Early in the morning, Will’s on time and after a simple greeting, she puts her bag in the trunk. He comments on how females need to carry half of their house when they go out and she replies that men think they’re going to live off of thin air when they leave, and that women carry their clothes so they can survive. As soon as they get to his house, the million dogs he has greet her with doggy kisses and she has to pat seven heads to please them. It’s really weird to be in his house and at first it’s awkward because they don’t know what to do but when he suggests taking a walk around the woods she feels more at ease. That is until she remembers hunting with her father.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

The sound of the wind blowing and the leaves falling give their surroundings an eerie quality. “Yeah. It’s just that… it’s weird to walk here without a rifle.”

The yellow foliage crackles under his boots. “We can go back if you want.”

“No, it’s okay.” Abigail looks around, used to detecting movement around them and progressively relaxes with Will’s company.  “I need to forget.”

They walk for a while in silence. There’s not much to say except that ‘everything will be alright’, but she supposes that her guardian understands that words like that won’t change anything. What happened is in the past and what she lived will haunt her until who knows when. She sits on an old trunk and closes her eyes listening to the sounds of the forest, the trees and the birds almost lulling her to sleep.

“Sometimes I think I could live here.” she muses. “I mean, away from everything.”

Will looks into the distance to nowhere in particular. “Not everybody can survive the loneliness.”

“I could do it. I wouldn’t hurt anyone out here.”

The profiler places his hand on hers and Abigail relaxes, it’s a soothing and pleasing sensation that she’s getting used to. They spend a couple of minutes like this until the daylight begins to fade and darkness falls in the forest. Both of them return to the house and Will teaches her how to play chess. It’s confusing and she has a hard time remembering the moves, but the activity takes her somewhere else without grim thoughts clouding her mind. She wins once and she’s more than sure he let her win because he just can’t stop being nice. They laugh and she can’t ignore the difference between Will and Hannibal. Everything’s more relaxed with the younger man. He’s not as solemn and she doesn’t behave the same way she does in the doctor’s presence, but there’s a big dissimilarity between the two men. Something she can’t pinpoint but it’s obviously there. Perhaps it’s the fact Will and she have been deprived of sane human interaction and seek affection but deny it when it presents itself because of fear. Fear of being rejected, judged and finally discarded.

She helps him wash the dishes once dinner’s over and the dilemma catches both in an uncomfortable situation.

“I’ll sleep on the couch. You take the bed,” he suggests, picking up an extra cover and pillow.

She looks at her feet and grins. “That’s not necessary.”

The man nods and gets in bed waiting until she leaves for the bathroom to change into her sleeping clothes, an old t-shirt and light sweatpants. She smiles nervously and curls on her side facing the chimney while the man does the same on the opposite side. It’s weird to feel the presence of a man in the same bed who’s not someone she’s dating. Then again, the same happened when she was with Mark. With that idea in mind, she closes her eyes and falls asleep, ready for what tomorrow brings.

 It’s sunny but cold and Will insists they part early for the stream to take advantage of the day in its entirety. Yawning, she follows him down a path the man has obviously walked almost every day because he points out something about every strangely shaped tree that catches Abigail’s attention. Once there, she gets her waders on, a pair he bought exclusively for her. They are uncomfortable and ugly but she’ll have to deal with it.

“Is it cold?” she asks, poking at the water with her foot from the bank.

He laughs, “Come on. It’ll be okay.”

Bit by bit she walks to where Will is, rod in hand and lures hooked on her waistcoat. She almost falls due to the strong current but she makes it to Will’s side.

“Let it go, don’t keep a tight hold of it and wait until the line starts pulling.” The man takes his own rod in his hand and teaches her how to cast. “See?” Abigail watches attentively and nods.

It’s been almost an hour and nothing comes out from the water. Her legs start to hurt from standing and she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, firm in his spot as if the water was part of him. When her legs start to tremble she gives up.

“Can I sit down for a bit?” she asks, pulling at the line.

The profiler looks at her and nods. “Take your time. We can have lunch if you want to.”

“That’d be great.” Her stomach’s been grumbling for a while now.

In the end, she was a total failure because she let go the only fish she caught just because she got scared when its slippery body squirmed in her hands. Will got five, of course, and they return back home with dinner. He prepares one and puts the others in the fridge for later consumption. Surprisingly, she doesn’t really care about watching TV or getting online. Talking and learning how to make lures is more entertaining than watching the news or TV series. She guesses that it’s mostly because he wants to disconnect from reality, avoid reports about murders and focus on her alone, which makes Abigail feel special.

Bedtime comes and she sighs contented on her side of the bed. She hasn’t had this much fun in a long, long time and today the woods didn’t intimidate her as much as they did the first day. Perhaps it’s because Will was with her and she felt protected. He makes her feel safe, cherished, loved. Will’s the first man who makes her feel this way and she takes a deep breath. Her father doesn’t count. He played a game in which only he could win and his obsession with his daughter clouded his judgment. Will’s the first man who hasn’t tried to use her for any purpose. It’s much more than comfort, more than gentleness. Abigail bites her lower lip and turns around to face him. She watches the soft curls, his arms nicely muscled under his short sleeved t-shirt. He’s truly good looking and kind, he doesn’t have to be a father and these two days she has seen another side of him, one that no one probably has. They both need attention, they both need touch and they need each other. She needs to heal emotionally. He might mend the agonizing feeling of rejection.

Abigail’s arm shyly snakes around his waist and she presses her small body close to his, causing the man to stiffen immediately. She rests her forehead against his nape and smiles, seeking his warmth, and Will rolls to lie on his side, facing her. There’s understanding and an unspoken question she answers by shifting her position to straddle him. She feels adventurous but also curious about the man beneath her, about his real intentions with her, what has happened these two days and the signals he sent. The profiler’s face doesn’t change and Abigail takes his hand. He doesn’t refuses her and she smiles softly before she starts moving against his clothed groin, rolling her hips and encouraging him to react to her touch. He represents everything she wants: a friend, a confidant and an accomplice to her darkest secrets. Will closes his eyes and gradually becomes erect while she rubs herself harder against him and Abigail directs his hand to slide under her t-shirt and brassiere to cup her warm small breast. She closes her eyes feeling her slit twitching against the friction in the darkness of the living-room and she thinks of the time they went fishing, how nice it felt to have someone wanting to make her happy. The warmth between her legs feels delicious and he’s responding to her body. He can feel her needing him, he knows what she wants and he won’t stop. Her thoughts go to Hannibal and the way he looked at her, ignoring her wish to be loved, to be wanted, to be desired. A soft moan escapes her lips and her hand lifts his t-shirt, thin fingers move over the taut stomach, the muscled body and she continues grinding against him slowly. Finally, his thumb begins to rub the hard nipple and she arches her back. He’s setting her on fire and she moves a hand down to pull down his boxers and release his manhood. Still clothed, she rubs her panties against the length and his cock spreads her folds with the strength she applies against him. It’s all too intense, confusion and ecstasy, she’s blind, she can’t think, she only feels. Aroused, Abigail pulls the thin strip of her underwear aside and their skins come in contact at last, her wetness coating his hardness but still not penetrating her. She bends forward and looks at him straight in the eye before approaching closer to rest her lips against his.

“No. No, no, no.”

Abigail stops, panting and frowning. The man gently removes her from on top of him and lets her sit beside him. Will pulls up his underwear to cover himself and looks down at the blankets. “This is wrong.”

Panic starts to form in her chest. Not again. Please, not again. “Why? You want me, I want you. What’s wrong?”

The man shakes his head. “This is not what you want. You’re confused. Nothing healthy will come out of this.”

Abigail’s lips part, trying to understand what’s happening, her fists tight and shoulders hunched. “I’m not a little girl. I’m not a virgin.”

“But you’re also not in love with me, and right now, what you need is someone who will give you everything you need.” Will attempts to take her hand but she pulls away.

“You give me all I want and much more than I could ever ask for.” There are tears rolling down her cheeks, salty tears that fall from her chin to wet her t-shirt. “You were hard, you touched me. Don’t push me away, please.”

Will looks distressed, tortured by what he has to do with her and she can see it in his eyes. “This is not what you want. You’ll understand with time. I’m sorry. I…” He looks for the right words, something she won’t hear right now. All she can think of is that she’s been rejected twice by the men who are supposed to take care of her. “You’ll find someone, I’m sure of it. You’ll find someone who’ll give you everything you want. But that man is not me.”

It’s too late. Abigail lies back in bed and covers herself with the blankets, curling into fetal position and not facing him. She closes her eyes tight and fights back a sob. She must face the truth that nobody wants her. She’s dirt, she’s useless and a trouble to everyone surrounding her. She should be dead, it’d be better, she’d save the time she’s wasting on getting hurt. She’s not worth a dangerous man nor a good one, she’s nature’s mistake. Will doesn’t attempt to touch her again and there’s movement on the bed. After a while, she opens her eyes to look around only to find him sleeping on the couch.

Her cellphone resting on the nightstand rings and she’s shaken by the sound. Abigail checks the screen, it’s a private number. She looks at Will and he seems asleep but she highly doubts that’s the case. She picks up the call anyways. “Hello?”

Not a word can be heard at the other side of the line and it lasts a couple of seconds before the call’s over. The girl frowns and leaves it back by the bed. There’s only one who’d do something like this. Someone who’s used to control and can’t stop himself from doing it.

…

“How was your weekend?” the doctor asks serving her a glass of Grand Cru.

Since she left the profiler’s house she barely talks, her eyes are cast down and she doesn’t pay attention to the conversations around her. She’s given up. The fight is no longer worth her strength. “Fine.”

Hannibal tilts his head, smirking. “That’s not a very enthusiastic reply. What did you do?”

Abigail blinks and scratches the back of her palm nervously. “He taught me chess and we went fishing.”

The man takes his place at the head of the table and remains silent until he starts cutting his beef. She has no doubt about what the food is any longer, she stopped thinking about it as the consumption of humans a long time ago. It’s better that way. No guilt, no morals, nothing. “Nothing else happened?” he inquiries.

The girl lifts her head at the question and picks up her fork to poke at the vegetables. “No.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Abigail.”

“And you are a pain in the ass.”

She’s not ignorant about the consequences of talking to him like this and getting the man angry. He’s been patient so far and she doubts he’ll let this one pass but she doesn’t give a damn. If she has to die by his hands, so it be.

Hannibal remains completely still. “Mind your language.”

Broken, tired and dishearten she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “And you mind your own business.”

The man’s jaw tightens. “I only want the best for you.”

If she’s a bad liar, he’s the most cynical man she’s ever met in her life. Sick and perverse. Finally, she faces him and there’s fury in her eyes as well as tears forming. “Really? Then why don’t you fucking leave me alone?”

She’s expecting him to expel her from his house, to cut her throat and reopen her neck’s scar or simply kill her with his knife but instead he goes back to his food. “You’ll never be alone as long as I live.”

No word is said for the rest of the night.

…

There’s no better place to study than the McKeldin library. One can take advantage of the deadly silence of the beautiful large space, the texts at hand’s reach and the many hours you can spend without anyone bothering you. It became her favorite location on campus and she uses her time to complete delayed essays and focus on making study guides for exams. So far she’s doing decently and Kristen has helped a lot with catching up and keeping her company. Whenever the girl asks if she’s alright, Abigail quickly deflects the topic and moves the conversation to something else. Kristen obviously doesn’t buy it but she stops asking after a while.

The students’ mouths run as if filled with venom as they talk about Abigail behind her back. Mark’s death has earned her a certain fame and it’s not a good one. If she was a freak before because of her scar, now she’s  the college’s Black Widow. Ninety percent of the population believes Mark died because of her fault and the rest don’t because they simply ignore her existence.

Abigail hasn’t seen Will since that weekend and it’s fine. He must be disgusted by her and she doesn’t blame him. He’s just another one of the many who think ill of her and with a good reason. Welcome to the fanclub.

…

May 8th arrives and it’s a reminder that Abigail Hobbs has been living for nineteen years on this planet. After Alana’s and Hannibal’s insistence she celebrates her birthday at the doctor’s place in which they are the only guests. Her surprise shows on her face when Will steps into the dinning-room carrying his gift, wrapped in a blue and golden paper.

“Happy birthday,” he says extending the item to her.

She doesn’t seem too enthusiastic but she’s screaming with anguish and frustration inside. “Thank you.”

Alana looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Oooh, what is it?”

The paper’s torn apart, partly because she doesn’t care about it and partly because she needs to release her stress in some way due to the profiler’s presence. She studies the leather cover of a diary and she frowns.

“I’ve never used one but I’ve been told they are good for expressing yourself. Write whatever you want, your feelings… fears, anything. It’s your personal haven to vent. It has a lock for that purpose.” The young man rubs his palm over his jeans and forces a tiny smile.

“It’s really nice. Thank you.” Her voice is dull and she leaves it with Alana’s gift on the opposite end of the table: a gift card for Victoria’s Secret. She was the only one who amused her with her present. The female doctor said ‘You’re old enough to wear pretty things’ and she didn’t complain. The little missing detail is that she doesn’t have anyone to model her sensual underwear, nor will she. She lifts her eyes to meet Hannibal’s and he’s watching her apprehensively. He knows. He knows that something has happened at Will’s house, he can smell it in the air and she’ll try to avoid being alone with him in the same room as much as possible.

Hannibal leaves them for a moment and returns with a blue Tiffany’s bag. Abigail’s face changes and imagines the worst. The doctor offers his gift with a nod. “Directly from New York. Happy birthday, Abigail.”

The bag alone must be at least twenty bucks and she doesn’t want to know how much the content is worth. Abigail takes out the velvety blue box out of the bag and opens it. A two carat round diamond pendant with matching earrings and a silver chain. She’ll never know, of course, that the set is $11,127 and that he requested it from a friend he has in New York to be delivered as soon as possible, which added another extra to the bill. Speechless, she runs her fingertip over the gem at about the size of a thumbnail and blinks several times before she can face the doctor. “This is… too much.”

“Ah, ridiculous.”  The man removes the necklace from the case and walks behind her to put it around her delicate neck. The diamond rests between her clavicles, bright over pale skin. Will raises both eyebrows and chuckles and Alana is in awe.

“What… this is…” the woman mutters but the doctor puts his index over his lips to shush her and Alana makes a gesture as if she’s zipping her lips. She has a vague idea of how expensive it is and the girl mustn’t know, even if she suspects it. “Well, I suppose we shall have dinner, yes?”

The group agrees and Hannibal sets the table in minutes with Alana’s help. She still can’t tear her eyes away from the gift. She looks at Will, catching him rather disappointed and she guesses it’s because his diary pales in comparison to Hannibal’s diamond. She offers him a soft smile before the food arrives and they begin to eat. Who knows who’s the final ‘guest’ on the table. 

There she is. Surrounded by the people who have changed her life. Two fathers, one she attempted to kiss and another she attempted to have sex with, and on top of it all, a woman who pretends to be an older sister.  A family she didn’t ask for, but keeps her alive. She might not be comfortable, she does what she can and so far it’s working in its own fucked up way. Abigail watches them talk and records the picture in her mind. Hannibal’s gaze meets hers and his lips form a small smile, as if he knew what’s going through her mind, which wouldn’t surprise her.  She looks away and stares into the centerpiece on the table with its flowers, bird bones and fruits. She’s pensive, registering everything around her, still confused and hurt, but perhaps tonight she might find some momentary peace. Perhaps.


	7. Chapter 7

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more in my life.”

The final lights of Saturday afternoon’s sun are illuminating the house’s shapes neatly on the wall of the tall building next to Hannibal’s house. It’s getting warmer and dusk is taking longer than usual to cover the city in the darkness. Abigail’s wearing a simple long sleeved t-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, so different from a week ago when she had sweaters shielding her from the last colds days of Baltimore’s chilly winter’s climate. She folds her arms over her chest. “And what are we going to see?”

“Contemporary art. I’m very curious about your commentary on the art pieces we’ll see.” Hannibal kneads the dough to make pizza (on Abigail’s request, of course) and some strands of the ashy blond hair fall partially covering his eyes.

“Well yeah, but is there some particular artist or…?” She’s thinking of celebrities and gags at the idea of a billion photographers pushing her and stepping on her shoes.

“Nathaniel Onguel. He works with wood, large balloons and bones.” He chuckles as she looks at him almost disgusted. “It’s a strange mix but worth seeing. Very interesting.”

“Right.” Abigail goes to the fridge and picks up a beer, those she knows are Alana’s property.

“Alcohol this early?” he asks, dividing the dough into three parts.

“Says the man who drinks scotch at nine A.M.” She rolls the bottle between her hands and shrugs. Playing with ‘Alana’s property’ is very effective at making him feel nervous. If she’s the woman in his life, she doesn’t register it. For all that matters, Abigail’s the one that counts.

Hannibal watches her for a moment and returns to his business. “I’m an adult.”

“So am I.” Abigail walks to the counter by the window and hops to sit on top of it, beer in hand.

The doctor picks up an olive from the bowl beside him and puts it in his mouth. “You can’t drink alcoholic beverages yet. Not until you are twenty one.” Which is a laugh because she drinks wine generally at dinner with him, and he’s the one who even provides her with the expensive bottles to bring back home.

“In France I could be drinking any time, even if I was three or something,” she answers with a tone of annoyance.

“This is not France,” is his only argument.

Abigail frowns and leaves the bottle on the counter. “And I’m not a child anymore.”

“That has yet to be proven.”

He made a mistake with those words, or perhaps he did it on purpose, because Abigail jumps off the table and stands beside him. “Prove it, then.” He has just entered the lion’s den with a phrase like that. He continues to prod her with innuendos and jealousy and when the time comes to do something about it, he takes two steps back leaving her alone in the middle of an empty room. If she was more daring she could have pulled him by his tie until they were nose to nose and wait to see what he would have done, but if he didn’t do anything she’d have her foolishness exposed for him to feast on. _Make up your goddamn mind_. The couple remains silent until she breaks it. “I thought so.”

…

“I’m not going to wear that.”

It’s a fashion disaster, but that’s Kristen’s taste and she has to shut up sometimes because really, she’s not going to wear a silver dress with sequins.

“Come on, it’s shiny. You want to make an impression, right? This is the way.” The girl passes the hangers with the party dresses and selects a few for Abigail to wear, dresses that make her want to run from the mall as fast as she can.

“I want to impress, I don’t want people to think I’m part of the show.” Arms folded across her chest, she examines the dresses and shakes her head. “Let’s look somewhere else.” Because Hannibal is the one who’s paying and if he wants her to look pretty, he’ll have to suffer. The six thousand he transferred to her debit card actually means that he wants her to be dashing, and of course, he’s expecting designer’s clothes.

“It sounds like you want to impress _someone_ ,” Kristen corrects as they leave the shop.

Abigail frowns and smiles at the same time. “What? No. I just want to look nice.”

Her friend shakes her head before they stop at a store that sells various couture brands. There’s a beautiful Valentino gown that’s way over the six thousand he gave her and another yellow Stella McCartney that looks… too plain and sporty for an event like this. She wants to look like a woman, not a child, not his daughter. Finally, in the middle of the shop, the dress she’s been looking for. “That one.”

Kristen’s eyes go wide and she looks back at Abigail who looks determined to get the outfit and doesn’t seem to be joking. “You’re the boss, girl.”

…

_[H.L.] I’ll be here in ten._

Abigail pockets her phone in her black clutch purse and checks her make-up one more time in the bathroom glass. Not too much, just burgundy eyeshadow to make her blue eyes standout, deep red waterproof lipstick and just a bit of base to conceal her freckles. The doorbell rings and she takes a look out the window just in time to see Hannibal wearing a well tailored black suit, black leather gloves and looking about, as if he was nervous. _Good_. _Show time._

She could make a glamorous descend down the stairs just like in the movies but instead she’s practical and takes the elevator. It’s just two floors but she doesn’t want to trip in her Jimmy Choos and ruin the dress, she needs to be perfect tonight. The metal elevator door opens and Abigail inhales deeply before heading towards the door. When the man turns around to look at her, the regularly confident expression is replaced by awe.

Abigail stands in front of him in a long Ellie Saab scarlet red chiffon sleeveless gown with a lace panel bodice that covers most of her chest without revealing anything and yet defining her curves. It features a thigh high slit that’s partly concealed by the folds of the dress but not high enough to pull an Angelina Jolie on a red carpet, and it is perhaps the most revealing part of her attire. She’s wearing, of course the diamonds he gave her for her birthday which adds the ‘sparkly’ part to the beautiful composition Kristen insisted for her to have. Her ebony hair is down and cascades around her round shoulders. The girl smiles and turns from one side to the other, holding the dress for him to take a good look at it. “What do you think?”

The man openly gazes upon the slit and quickly returns to her face out of respect. “Absolutely stunning.” He gently takes her hand in his and walks her to the luxurious car. She’s careful with the fabric as to not wrinkle it as she sits and smiles at Hannibal. She feels like a princess for the first time in her life and tonight’s not for torturing herself with the past. She intends to enjoy being the only object of Hannibal’s attention, something she believes she achieved. Painted and lovely, she waits for him to take the driver’s seat and checks the time on her silver watch. “Are we late?”

“There’s no specific time to arrive to the exposition. Just a couple of minutes before the artist gives his speech to the guests.”

“Oh.”

“Your taste in clothing is impeccable.” He’s basically telling her that she’s hot as hell but in a very gentlemanly way, something anyone would expect of him.

“You actually dressed me tonight.” She looks out the front. Her profile is truly beautiful. Her faintly aquiline nose gives her an air of distinctive beauty and her skin, fair and young, a treasure for anyone to be jealous of. She’s pale but the little light exposure to the sun when she has lunch with Kristen out in campus’ gardens is showing. Still, clad in red, her porcelain skin contrasts beautifully with her attire.

“But you were the one who picked your dress; the elegance of your looks tonight is a product of your high conception of fashion.” Hannibal’s not very subtle tonight with his praising.

“But you picked my jewelry and paid for my dress and shoes.” The girl rests her head against the seat and draws a sly smile on her lips. “I’m your doll tonight.”

He chuckles as if her words amused him but in fact she knows that he’s immensely pleased. A man like Hannibal adores showing off his possessions like trophies, and he evidently finds delight in letting others admire the result of his new investment. Abigail doesn’t mind being treated like an object tonight. She’s her own boss and the woman who’s keeping him company. If she’s there, it’s of her own will, knowing that something like this would happen. It’s part of the frivolous side of her personality but who cares, she’s up for the show tonight.

The gallery is packed and she’s very concerned about the length of her dress and if people will step on it, since it barely touches the ground. The second movement of Beethoven’s piano sonata number eight, ‘ _Pathetique’_ , plays in the air in contrast with all the modern art pieces surrounding them. _Odd_ , but so are the artists. Hannibal offers his arm for her to rest hers on, something she’s delighted to do. The art is simply horrible. There are a few beautiful pieces in wood and both remain admiring them for a couple of minutes because she requests it, but when they reach the balloon area, she sighs.

“Not to your liking, I suppose.”

She purses her red lips and raises one eyebrow at him. “Are you serious?”

Hannibal laughs and nods. “Believe it or not, this is worth ten thousand dollars.”

The piece in question is made of fifty or so dog shaped balloons in all colors tied as a ball floating at the center of the gallery. Abigail looks down at the tag with the title: _‘When my mother told me she was going to die.’_ “You have to be kidding me.”

“No, and I’d appreciate if you could change your attitude because here comes the artist.” Hannibal draws his most charismatic smile to the young man walking towards them: black suede jacket, electric blue pants, red shoes and dreadlocks. Abigail’s still looking at the ceiling, astonished.

“I see we have a fan here?” Nathaniel observes putting both hands behind his back and leaning towards Abigail.

The girl straightens up and smiles, the best she can. “Ah it’s… amazing.” _What?_

The artist seems pleased by the compliment and looks up at the installation. “Thank you. It took me three years of work.”

She nods slowly, trying to contain her laughter and to not make a face that will give away her amusement. She has an idea about conceptual artists, well, Yoko Ono was one example. It all looks like pretentious displays of superiority from people who believe their shit is better than the rest. Narcissism, low self-esteem and the need to pretend the opposite are some of the conclusions she arrives at when facing this kind of ‘art’. Hannibal took her here to test her, once more, on how to put forward a pretty face and shamelessly lie to everybody. He’s training her, she can see it now, and she decides to be up to the challenge. “The concept is very deep.”

“Really? What do you see?”

This is exactly what happens when someone opens their mouth trying to sound convincing, but they’re absolutely ignorant about the subject, and Abigail’s paying the price. _Think of fancy words, come on_. But nothing comes out and the only thing she has left is to turn to Hannibal and offer both men a wide smile. “I was actually discussing it with Hannibal.” Abigail fell again into asking for help from the older man. “Right?”

The doctor puts his hands in the pockets of his pants and nods. “It’s a very clear concept. The balloons represent your lost childhood but also your mother’s desire to cover up the news with a cheap ploy such as them, representing the desire to keep aloft the spirits after the news of her impending death. They are floating because the fear of losing one of your parents is once more taken to the surface. Dogs represent loyalty and in this particular piece you are trying to express your anguish regarding your idealization of them, considering that they’d last forever. Your mother, in this case.”

Nathaniel’s face changes into joy and she knows that if they weren’t surrounded by people, he’d actually kiss him. “That’s why I love having you in my expositions, Hannibal.”

“Spot on,” Abigail adds, trying to sound confident. Both look at her with snobby glances letting her know that what she expressed was out of place. Her youth is too evident and she excuses herself to continue perusing the rest of the gallery while the men talk. She uses her time to practice. It’s all about thinking of the craziest ideas when they ask you what the piece is about and in case the artist thinks you’re wrong, you can say it’s just an interpretation, that every person has a different one. She stops in front of an orange with a faucet stuck on it, then a rectangle on the floor made of bricks, and a little more ahead, two chairs, one on the ground the other hanging from the wall. This time she spends a good time admiring each to create the weirdest stories behind each, which proves to be entertaining.

“A feast for your eyes, isn’t it?” a masculine voice asks from behind. Abigail jumps and rests a palm over her chest with a chuckle. The man smiles and it’s warm and not fake as the rest. “I’m sorry, you were deep into the piece.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Abigail observes him. He’s not older than Hannibal, dark hair, caramel eyes and a funny mustache. He looks like someone taken from the Victorian age, with his high collar and bow tie. “And yes, it’s simply wonderful.”

The man looks at the display in front of them. It’s a table with a dish and on top of it, a femur with a tag that says ‘carne vale’. She can only guess the ‘carne’ part because she remembers it’s ‘meat’ in Spanish. She sucked at Spanish back in high school but at least she remembers something. “I think that the word you used, ‘feast’, is very appropriate for it,” Abigail says trying to sound serious.

“Is that your interpretation?” he asks with his deep, baritone voice.

Abigail sighs deeply and clasps her hands at the front. “We can all be consumed. It represents that we are all just flesh and bones.”

“Yes. It also goes to the motive of the piece. ‘Carne vale’ means ‘farewell to meat’ and it sends you back to the story behind the carnival. A humorous outtake of the symbolism behind it.”

“People also wear masks during the carnival,” she points out.

“Indeed. We get used to them.” The man continues looking at the bone and the plate, as if he was squeezing every single bit of ideas out of it.

“Perhaps that’s the message behind the femur. You get rid of your masks and there’s nothing left but the essential which supports you.” Hannibal steps behind both and remains closer to Abigail’s side. He’s trying to protect her like before. She doesn’t need that anymore. “Phillip.”

“Hannibal,” the other man answers and they shake hands. They seem to be acquaintances, nothing more. “And who’s the lovely lady here?”

“Abigail Hobbs,” the man quickly answers before the girl can barely open her mouth. She’s somehow satisfied with his answer. She’s not ‘his daughter’ or ‘a friend’.

“A pleasure to meet you, mister…?”

“Phillip Anderson,” Hannibal answers again, resting a palm on her back and she tries her best not to pull away. “Or should I say, Judge Anderson?”

Abigail’s face changes and her back is full of knots. If he’s affiliated with the court he must know about her case. He must remember her name from the news and the ease she felt with Hannibal’s friend before vanishes in a blink of an eye. “Nice to meet you,” she mutters.

The judge takes her hand and keeps it between his, something she didn’t expect. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Hobbs.”

“You both were so enthralled in conversation I couldn’t prevent myself from wanting to join you. Marvelous piece, isn’t it?” Hannibal points out and Abigail wonders what the hell do people see so extraordinary in something that she suspects the ‘artist’ worked five to ten years to ‘design’.

“We were talking about eating human flesh,” she shoots. _Goodbye to subtleties._

The doctor turns to look at her with interest and the spotlights on the sculpture reflect on Hannibal’s eyes giving his irises a reddish glint. “Touchy topic.”

“Not really, you eat and you survive,” she answers.

“Not all is about surviving. There’s a message behind it.”

“And which one would that be?” Phillip asks, reminding both that he’s still part of the conversation.

Hannibal shakes his head and grins. “There are a million messages behind death.”

Abigail tears her eyes off him and returns to the artist’s creation. “I think the message is loneliness. Those who eat others are so hurt that the only way to approach them is by killing. Fear can make you do the stupidest things.” She taps her fingertips on her small purse. “And the cleverest too.”

“Revolutionary concept!” Phillip says with a soft laughter. But Hannibal’s not laughing nor looking at her. He seems to be incensed, perhaps considering ways of how to kill her for what she said or implied, thinking of the locations where he’ll bury the rest of her body, the parts he won’t eat. Abigail looks at him, impassive, waiting, but nothing comes out of his mouth. “Where were you hiding this gem, Hannibal?” the judge asks. The doctor doesn’t answer.

“I must go to the ladies’ room, excuse me,” she says before nodding to both men and exiting the main room. The chiffon flutters gently behind her as she makes her way to the restroom and once inside she rests both palms on the counter with the sinks and looks down at the metal oval.

She practically told him that she knows he’s a cannibal, that he’s the Ripper and that she’s not afraid of him. Something she should be. Being utterly stubborn has gotten her into some fights but it never happened with a ruthless serial killer. Especially not one who’s practically paying for every single thing in her life and to whom she owes a million favors. She and her big mouth. Not even after what her father taught her, to keep silent has helped. She was someone before all of this, a lamb who’d follow his orders and now she’s rebelling against the world. A girl who’s absolutely clueless about what she is going to do with herself.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been in the same position until her eyes go to the mirror and go wide seeing Hannibal’s figure’s reflected in it, standing in the doorway.

“You’ve been very brave out there.” The smile is gone, the darkness in which he lives is almost suffocating.

Abigail washes her hands and dries them with paper towels. “I tried to sound casual and intelligent. Didn’t work well.” Matter of fact, the whole night has been a complete disaster. She didn’t feel like a princess, she looked like an idiot with the artist, she tried to prove herself worthy of the man’s attention and on top of it she made the stupidest move she could with the doctor.

“I disagree.” Hannibal extends his hand towards her.

She fears the worst. She walks slowly, afraid that this might be the last time she sees other people, that he’ll keep her prisoner in his house to torture her until he’s satisfied, chop her up and serve her to guests. Her hand rests on his and he unexpectedly pulls her close by her waist to press a kiss upon her lips. Her heart goes up to her throat but she doesn’t push him away. How could she? She’s been daydreaming of this for months now and yes, everything’s absolutely wrong. The age difference, the fact that anyone might see them and the awful, absolutely unromantic place. Fearfully, one of her palms goes to his cheek and surprisingly he doesn’t stop kissing her, even if they are simply pressing their lips together. She finally closes her eyes and allows him to take over when his tongue slowly slides into her mouth. Abigail makes an almost inaudible sound and wraps her arms around his neck but she quickly breaks the kiss and pushes away when a young woman clears her throat and excuses herself to enter the bathroom. Hannibal seems irritated and takes her hand. They walk all through the maze of corridors in the museum and he checks each door trying the lock. He goes one by one until he finds an empty office where no cameras can be seen inside.

She’s nervous, as if this was her very first time alone with a man. The doctor is once again claiming her mouth and she relaxes into his touch. Her small hands move up from his waist to his back, exploring the muscles hidden beneath layers of clothes while the man breaks the kiss only to bestow short, chaste ones looking into her eyes. They remain speechless, staring at each other’s faces clearly illuminated by the dim light cast from the street lamps through the office windows.

Abigail stays silent and simply stares at him as her chest heaves up and down from the excitement and he on his part does the same. His expression is dark, one she hasn’t seen before. Perhaps there’s a little anger but if that’s the case, it must be because of the location. Abigail moves forward and presses her lips against his again and he doesn’t evade her. She frowns because no, it’s not going to happen again. The girl tilts her head upwards and kisses his cheek, the corner of his lips and chin before a pair of strong arms grab her from the back of her thighs and lift her up to sit on the edge of the desk nearby. She’s closer to him now, her mouth is at the level of his nose and she takes her time to study him. She caresses the high cheeks, the little wrinkles around his eyes and the shape of his tempting thin lips. He surprisingly grants her permission to do it. It’s like seeing the sea for the first time, admiring the immensity, the beauty and the power of the waves that collide against the rocks on the shore. Her eyes flutter close once more and she goes for another kiss while the man’s hand brushes the silky strands of black hair away from her neck. He reveals her scar as if it were a gift she has kept for him only. He breaks the kiss once more to rest his mouth over the mark and she can feel his breathing against it, warm and soft.

She blinks furiously when the tip of his tongue starts tracing it and moves all the way upwards until he reaches her earlobe and sucks on it. By instinct, or who knows why, she parts her legs to allow him to stand between them forcing him to step closer, which he does. The sensation is divine and Abigail tilts her head backwards while he kisses her throat and the other side of her neck. It’s mutual exploration and she’s grateful that he’s allowing it because she needs this, and she’s more than sure he does as well. Carefully, her hands go to his face and back to entangle her fingers in the perfectly combed hair, enjoying its texture, just like she’d do with the fur of the prey she’s just hunted. He starts sucking on her skin and a soft moan escapes while her leg curls around his thigh to pull him closer. Hannibal stops and she looks back at him, wondering if that’s all he’s going to give her. She changes her mind when he slides a cold hand through the thigh high slit of the chiffon dress to touch her knee.

She wants to beg him to not stop, but she doubts it will be necessary. Abigail attacks his mouth again and the hand’s forgotten when she feels his fingers undoing the zipper on the back of the dress and he starts to explore her bare skin. He traces her vertebrae with his fingertips, one by one until his hand gets lost at the base of her spine. Abigail struggles with the bodice until the fabric’s down to her waist and the doctor helps her stand and step out of it, along with her red panties, courtesy of Alana’s gift card. She sits back on the desk as if she was a good girl obeying daddy’s orders and he stares at her nude form. The man approaches closer and rests a palm over her right breast. Abigail closes her eyes, this is nothing compared to what she felt when Will touched her. This is real, there’s true desire from the other part and he thinks of her as a woman, not a surrogate daughter, not anymore. He kneads her nipple with his middle finger and thumb, studying the way her body works. He is, as a matter of fact, hitting the right spots because the girl jumps and fights back a moan when his mouth wraps around the pale pink nub. She doesn’t care about his hair at all now. Abigail cradles his head while he sucks on her breast and inch by inch, presses her back against the table. He does the same with the other and increases the strength he uses on each button until they are reddish and standing.

Abigail swallows and looks at the ceiling. _No, look at him._ She won’t miss a single detail of him devouring her, it’s a show she wants for herself alone and she doesn’t care how many times he must have done this to other women. This is her time, her right to see him unmasked, needy and human. The doctor kisses the valley between her breasts with the diamond he bought her adorning her chest. He continues down to her ribs and belly but he stops at her navel and gently pulls her up into his arms. She tries to take off his jacket but he removes her hand off him. _Okay, no touching then._

She jumps lightly when his hand’s back over her thigh and moves north to rest on her mound. She looks at his shoulder while he looks down spreading her outer labia with slick fingers. Abigail moans when he starts exploring her wetness and this is completely different from anything that has happened to her, even different when Alice was touching her and she was thinking of him. _This is real_ , she repeats to herself.

His pants appear to be a million miles away because she’s afraid to do something improper with him but she finally reaches out to unfasten the black fabric to cup his manhood. He’s very hard and she smiles. _That’s my doing_. Abigail looks up at him as if asking for permission but he says nothing which she takes as a green light to do as she pleases. He looks so vulnerable like this, so beautifully vulnerable and easy to manipulate even if he still has his automated reflex that won’t allow anyone to tear his veil down completely. He’s a killer, he has taken lives with the same hands that are pleasuring her and she in return, as recognition, pushes the black boxer down and wraps her thin fingers around his erection. She gently touches the warm velvety skin, a small smile upon her lips, looking from his member to his face to see if there’s any reaction. He swallows hard, and that’s more than enough for her.

The moment comes when he takes his fingers off her and presses her back against the desk. Hannibal finishes undoing his pants and pushing his underwear down until his clothes are at the level of his knees to delicately rub his leaking tip against her slit. She watches him do whatever he wants with her body; and her soul as well. He has conquered the impossible: to make her feel alive and wanted despite everything he knows and has seen of her. A soft _ah_ , almost imperceptible to anyone’s ears but his, leaves her mouth as he enters her. He moves slowly in, bit by bit, until he hilts her. One of her legs presses against the curve of his rear and moves up, encouragingly. Abigail sits up and rests her palms on his shoulders while his hands are on her hips, keeping her steady while he pulls back and goes in again with a gentle cadence.

Her eyes close and she moves her forearms to his shoulder to get closer while he does the same by pressing her sensitive breasts against the roughness of the fabric of his jacket. He starts moving then, gently but surely and she wants him to get as deep as he can. A very soft moan seems to do the trick and Hannibal’s hips move with a solid rhythm against her entrance. She forces herself to look at him, clasp his face between her hands to kiss him again while he moves. The kiss is only broken because of the moan that must escape from her mouth, the uncontainable need to let all the repressed feelings go at last.  She can feel every bit of his manhood inside her and she rests her forehead against his when the pace begins to drive her wild. Her legs curl around his frame, pushing him deeper, wanting him to pierce her if that’s what it takes to keep him against her. Soon enough they are both stuck to each other grinding against the desk and the girl presses his face against her neck. Her hands move all over his back as if she couldn’t take enough of him and she starts panting, eyes closed and absolutely desperate for his body.

He slows down only to go faster later on and he maneuvers her body as if she was a doll, _his doll_ like she said earlier in the night. She’s so wet that the noises of his thrusts against her can be audible in the room. She wants more. She wants all of him and he provides, or at least she wants to imagine that. No one exists around them and the world is theirs to do as they please. She, the lure, he, the hunter. Abigail moans louder at the thought and clings to him tight, which apparently encourages him to pound into her faster and harder. The girl clutches at Hannibal’s clothes tightly and frowns, absolutely taken by the ecstasy of having the man she wants so close, wanting her, taking her, claiming her. Was he jealous of Phillip when they were talking? Is that why he interrupted the conversation? Who cares. He’s inside her and she’s writhing under him like a leaf in the wind. Abigail tries her best to not say anything stupid and instead bites her lower lip while his muscles work all the way in and out of her. He seems lost, he’s like a machine and won’t stop and she’s about to faint due to the river of emotions running in her veins but she focuses, kissing all of him she has at reach. She can’t see his face any longer, they both don’t belong anywhere else but glued to each other and nothing can tear them apart, it’s not over, not yet. _More. More, please._

The desk trembles under their weight as they push it against the wall with their coupling. She won’t say his name, no. It’s a sacred word. It’s a treasure and he wouldn’t understand the intense meaning of it right now. They are both flesh pleasuring each other, melting into each other. And suddenly, in a moment in which Abigail sees stars under tightly closed eyes he stills and his hardness twitches inside her. She fights back a scream, mouth agape and a thin sweat covers her brow. With long spurts he comes inside her and his hands tighten their hold on her hips at his release. She embraces him to hold onto something while she rides her orgasm and he pants against her hair, holding her head with one palm until she’s done. Abigail finally lies down on the wooden surface breathing heavily and rests a palm over her stomach as he slowly pulls out of her.

Abigail recovers her breath at a snail's pace with a smile on her lips. He has marked her, she’s his and he’s hers. They are accomplices now with a terrible secret which she will keep hidden with her life. A forty eight year old man and a nineteen in a relationship together is socially unacceptable and she doesn’t give two fucks about it but it is important to him. She will keep her impulses at bay. No holding hands in public, no stolen kisses, nothing. Be a good girl.

The sound of fabric wakes her up from her slumber and she looks up. Hannibal’s putting his underwear and pants on. _What’s the hurry?_ The girl sits up again with difficulty due to her tired and sated state and smiles. “Hey.”

But no answer comes from him. He looks distressed, disturbed by something and Abigail enters in panic once more with this man when he heads towards the door. There’s a final glance towards her and then he’s gone, closing the door behind him.

This is not what she expected. Perhaps he went to the bathroom? Several minutes pass and Abigail’s still looking at the door. She’s still smiling, hopeful that he’ll return but he never does. She looks down at her thighs with the red marks of his fingers, and looks back at the door, dumbfounded. Her lower lip trembles and a couple of seconds later she hastily gets dressed again before she can leave the office. She traces their steps back and goes to the bathroom to clean herself, and finds her small purse still on the counter by the sink.  Abigail looks at her face with the traces of a battle she willingly lost and she washes it before retouching her make up to keep some dignity on. Afterwards she goes to the men’s bathroom and waits outside but there’s no trace of him. Finally, she makes her way back to the gallery and tries to act as calm as she can, feeling paranoid and thinking that everybody’s eyes are on her when in reality they are too focused on looking at stupid sculptures. In the middle of a crowd, Hannibal laughs and talks with the rest. She tightens her fists in small balls and walks towards them. When the man sees her, he leaves her some space to stand beside him.

They talk about stupid crap and she doesn’t care, like the upcoming horse race that will reunite the _crème de la crème_ and how ugly Lady Pourtmouth’s dress was the last time they went there. She embraces herself and looks away because if she tries to act as if nothing has happened, she’d simply cry, and that’s not an option.

“I’m afraid we must leave. It’s late and I have patients tomorrow morning.” Hannibal’s friends make sounds of disappointment and greet Abigail too, whose lips barely twitch to pretend that she’s smiling.

The ride in the car is silent. She wants to scream at him but she knows she doesn’t have the right. She knew she was entering dangerous waters when she hid with him in that dark office. She knew the risks and she faced them. She’s lost.

Hannibal pulls over at the apartment building and both remain still. The silence could be cut with a knife and tired of waiting, Abigail turns his face towards her with a hand to kiss him. He doesn’t pull back, but doesn’t deepen the kiss either. The girl breaks it and smiles at him before leaving the car and heading towards the door. She doesn’t look back to check if he’s watching her or not, because two seconds after she reaches the door, the engine of the Bentley roars and he’s out.

Up in her apartment she drops the clutch purse, steps out of her dress and takes a shower. She’s not dirty but there are still traces of Hannibal’s come between her legs despite the fact that she tried to clean the mess as best as she could back in the bathroom. If he can quickly get rid of her, so can she of him. Abigail steps out of the shower, gets dried, puts her pajamas with cartoonish sheep on and gets in bed.

Tomorrow will be just another day.


	8. Chapter 8

The difference between children and adults is that they know how to digest events that might be painful in different ways, and that getting older helps you endure and learn from your mistakes. That’s a lesson Abigail’s learning the hard way, the only way one could use to sort out the harshness of life.

After their night together, Hannibal called her as if nothing had happened and invited her for dinner. Her head was screaming ‘no’ but her illogical side said ‘why the hell not’. Their dynamic is difficult to explain, it actually doesn’t fit anywhere and it has a classification of its own. There are certain morals that mustn’t be trespassed but also double standards for everything each does. In its own way, they seem to keep a balance, a very delicate one that helps both continuing with their lives. Just because they had sex, it doesn’t’ mean they are going to be a happy couple and Abigail understood that after leaving the car. Her childhood dreams of a sweet boyfriend were gone and Hannibal metaphorically slapped her with that reality. This is adult life. She hates it but she’ll go on. She takes that moment in the gallery as an isolated event, not a mistake nor an act of love. It was simply two adults pleasuring each other without measuring the consequences and that’s it. She hasn’t gotten over it yet because her feelings for Hannibal are stronger than she’s ever had for anyone else but she understands. He’s not an easy man. She’s not an easy girl either.

She wants to belong to someone, and the only one she can see that with is him. _It will pass._

“There have been a couple of deaths recently.” The fish on Abigail’s dish is looking at her with dead glassy eyes and it’s a bit disgusting but she ignores it and continues with the rest of the Yakizakana he’s prepared for the both of them.

Hannibal hums after he takes a sip from his glass. “It’s a daily occurrence, I’m afraid.”

“Gruesome murders that seem to follow a pattern. Don’t you watch the news?” she asks, picking her words carefully.

“I do. But I haven’t seen anything extraordinary.”

She relaxes her shoulders, tired of his lies. She knows who he is and what he does, and there are no doubts left that he already knows this but continues pretending that she’s ignoring everything. “I know you’re a Tattler fan. You must have seen it there.”

“And the point being?” he asks, picking up his chopsticks again.

Abigail fights with her own. She has learned how to use them but she tightens her grip on them so much that her fingers end up tangled on the wooden utensils. “That you’re a very informed man in those matters.” She pauses and raises her gaze to him. “I know what kind of man you are.”

It seems like she takes him by surprise because he nods and the corners of his mouth are cast downwards, impressed. “And what would I be?” 

She doesn’t break eye contact because this is not the time to be afraid. “The ruthless kind that takes what he wants like the predator he is.”

He smiles. “If I’m a predator for being ambitious in life, I believe you and I have a different concept of the word.”

“I know what you are.”

The words don’t seem to move him at all but she knows he’s nervous. No one would like to be discovered, especially by a girl who’s not an empath like Will. “And what are you going to do with that information?”

The time to decide is now and Abigail must answer quickly. To defend him or go against him and die in that table. The solution seems simple, but knowing him, it’s not. She believes she will die in his hands anyways and even if the concept is somehow romantic, it’s not in Hannibal’s case. She has seen what he’s capable of by the state in which the bodies were found at the crime scenes and she’s not ready to put herself at the man’s mercy.

But she will.

“Nothing,” she answers and picks another piece of the fish. “Pretend. Just like I did my whole life.” Abigail leaves the chopsticks on the table and rests her hands over her lap, looking down at the dish. “I understand now why Mark had to go.” She waits until she’s ready to continue and tries not to smile to give herself away. “I am meant to be by someone else’s side.” As expected, he doesn’t answer but surprisingly doesn’t object either.

“There’s a copycat,” he says, returning to the original topic.

Abigail simply nods before taking a sip of her wine. His words mark the beginning of what would define her, the key episode of the most vital event of her life.

He’s not alone any longer.

…

“I’ve been considering dropping college,” she starts as she cuts her steak.

The words force Will to stop chewing. He insisted on having lunch in a place where Hannibal wasn’t present just to have a moment together alone from time to time. The doctor took the ‘family’ concept too seriously and at some point he’s asphyxiating. It seems that instead of becoming distant and non-existent, Abigail’s relationship with the profiler has gotten stronger and he’s being her confidant in many things and the man’s actually pretty good for advice. Something that, despite the last resolutions she took recently, is helpful to have. After lots of thought Abigail has asked herself; what’s a father? It is only the blood link that connects you to another person or the man who freely gives you his heart on a silver dish without wanting anything in return? It’s something that had to come sooner than later to her mind because people, no matter what she says, insist on acting fatherly towards her, for good or sick reasons. Now, after days of deliberation and thought, she came to the conclusion that Will fills the space comfortably. “I don’t think it’s-“

“I’m kidding,” she answers nonchalantly. “It’s the only secure thing in my life and I’m not going to give up.”

“You have me, and Hannibal.”

Abigail nods and looks out the large window besides them, the cars waiting for the green light and business people, mothers with children, seniors and delivery boys walking and running on the sidewalk. She’s not sure of Hannibal anymore. As far as it concerns her, yes, she won’t betray him, or at least that’s what she believes will happen for now. From his side, one day he might be gone with the wind and she’ll be left behind like a fool, waiting for him. Her secret mixed with her verbal diarrhea throw out an unexpected reply. “We had sex.”

Will chokes on his wine and puts the glass down with trembling hands. “…what?”

The reaction is just what she was expecting. “He’s not a plan B because you rejected me, you know.”

The young man shakes his head and lifts his hand in mid air, looking at his dish. “What… why did you do that?” 

Her voice is small. “I like him.”

“He could be your father. He’s nearly thirty years older than you, a man with a life of his own, you have just started yours and…” Will stops as he looks up to see Abigail miserably looking down at her plate and biting her lower lip. “You probably know all of this already.”

She nods. “I know it was a mistake.” _Lies_. “But I couldn’t stop myself and he couldn’t either.”

“You should have. You are an intelligent girl. How could you…?”

“We did it, okay!” she snaps and half of the restaurant turn to look at them. Will shushes her, taking one of her hands over the table.

The profiler lowers his voice in an attempt to calm her and follow his lead to keep their conversation quiet. “It’s done, but this can’t happen again. You understand?”

She remains in silence avoiding his gaze.

His grip on her hand tightens. _“Do you understand?”_

“Yes.”

He’s a good man, the best she’s known in her short life. Not that she had many male models to compare, but so far no one beats him, especially Hannibal. It’s very clear now. Will didn’t truly believe that she has thought about everything on this whole matter, or else he would have insisted on dwelling on every detail. He’s cautious, he truly cares about how he uses his words to not hurt her and is kind enough to be as understanding as possible with her, something he doesn’t do with anyone else, except at work. But work and feelings are entirely different things and the hermit Will they all know is far from the fatherly figure she knows. The man is aware that she has mixed feelings about the doctor, but he thinks she’s a silly girl in love with an ideal, a blue prince, when it’s the entirely the contrary. Abigail’s sphere of illusion popped when Hannibal left her in that office alone with her dreams. She could have insisted that he stay or slap him in front of everyone and claim that he raped her, anything to catch his attention or at least get a grasp of the man, the unreachable mortal she… _No._

She can sense that Will doesn’t know how to continue with their meeting anymore. He mutters something she can’t hear and clasps his face with both of his hands, rubbing his eyes. “I’m getting the highest scores on my exams,” she says, taking a sip of her coke with a shy smile.

Will leans back in his chair still hiding his face with his palms and after a moment he lets go. “That’s… that’s good. But he and…”

Since the moment he saw her, Hannibal’s done nothing but protect her at all times. It’s time to return the favor, even if her sanity will be highly questioned. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that the doctor is still a man despite what he does but he’s all she has at the moment. “I don’t love him. And I’m sure he doesn’t love me either. It was nothing; forget that I told you anything at all.”

That seems to relax him a little because he nods furiously, pauses and nods again. Abigail’s eyelids tremble and she forces herself to continue eating even if she feels like she’s about to throw up.

…

“I don’t deny it.”

“And you don’t condemn it, either.”

Both men have been talking for about an hour now about the candid topic that moved Will to search for the older man as soon as he left Abigail back at campus. It’s not a quarrel really, but a desperate attempt for the profiler to grasp some of the incongruence of the entire matter from the psychiatrist’s mouth. Yes, he knows they’ve been closer, yes, he practically saved her life but Abigail knows deep inside that Will never expected something like this to happen with Hannibal. She’s barely listening to the lecture at University, watching the shapes of the clouds through the window instead.

“It was an event that took place during unusual circumstances, I admit it. But I won’t allow you to judge me based on the simple fact that she’s nineteen. She’s passed the age of consent and knows what she’s doing.” Hannibal’s standing, facing the window with both hands in his trouser’s pockets. “It was irresponsible considering the social status I’m positioned and her situation, but I can’t deny it happened.”

Will looks like he’s at about to explode. “You’re not being responsible on the matter that she might be in love with you either.”

Hannibal takes a moment to answer. “We’re not in love. It was a mishap.”

“A mishap?” the profiler asks, incredulous. “Are you cynical enough to simplify an episode like this with that? What if she actually loves you?”

It seems like forever until the doctor speaks again. “Did she tell you she loves me?”

“She said she doesn’t.”

Hannibal focuses on something else, like walking to a small round table by the fireplace to grab the cognac and serve a glass for himself. He lifts a spare one for Will who shakes his head rejecting it. “That’s a favorable prospect for us all.”

“I’d truly appreciate if your connection with her remained the way it was before.” Will stares at the older man’s back. “Please.”

“So, your finger collector,” he quickly interrupts before Will can continue any further. “What is he seeking from each of his victims? Since you deduced he’s male, we can assume there could be lack of maternal love hidden in there. Fingers represent oral fixation, which can be associated to a mother’s breast.” The doctor finally turns to face his companion with a neutral expression. The conversation’s over.

Will looks down at his feet and rubs the floor with the tip of his shoe. “Parenthood.”

It takes a couple more hours until the doctor’s alone again in the huge house. The silence in every bedroom and corner of his home is like a large dead expanse of a lonely desert. A beautifully decorated desert, but one after all. Debussy’s Clair de Lune fills the empty spaces and curls around his ears as he leaves the pencil over on the desk, close to the unfinished portrait. A young woman, a girl holding a lyre and smiling at the observer. Despite her smile, her eyes have imprinted a taint of sadness and peace. He quickly enters the code for the safe in his office and the small metal box behind one of his paintings opens. There’s an old book, a Japanese tanto dagger, a pair of tiny binoculars and a family album. Hannibal Lecter spends the rest of the night staring at an aged photo of a small blonde little girl smiling at him from another time, another life.

…

Everybody’s getting in and no one’s out, which means that it must be hell inside the club. The smell of cigarettes and cheap beer fills her nostrils. Some are the typical cheeky popular type of girls who like to hang with the pack; others, the silent type with their own group, and then the guys, most of them already drunk and doing their best performance of sobriety to enter the locale. At the end of the scene, is Abigail. Clad in black jeans and a short red dress on top, the girl watches the crowd through dark eyelashes. She’s hunting again and so far nothing catches her attention. No one seems fit for the purpose of the mission, which is to acquire someone who will prove her hypothesis.

Perhaps the whole idea behind ‘going clubbing’ is to actually get inside and play the game to see and be seen so she decides to enter at last. She has her ID with her but underage are not allowed. Still, she has seen girls even younger than her getting in. Problem A: the bouncers. There are two at the front and the cover charge gatekeeper inside. Problem B: they stamp people and she has none. So the most important is to walk through, act confident and get into the mindset that you were in two minutes ago. Abigail waits until the bouncers outside are flirting with a pair of blondes and she prepares herself to charge forward but she unexpectedly sees a multitude of people in a corner a few feet away from the bouncers. Perhaps it’s a free giveaway promotion?

The girl approaches and starts laughing when she sees what’s happening. The people of the group shush her and the girl covers her mouth, still giggling. Underage boys and girls are licking the stamps from seniors who have been inside and press their wrists against the other’s to copy the symbol (a stupid heart with an L) on their skins to go in without problems. _Why the hell not?_

Abigail looks at the least suspiciously pervert of them all and of course, the one who hasn’t been licked too much to the point where the temporary tattoo has faded. It’s a small guy with glasses that doesn’t look like your average chick magnet. She walks closer trying to show confidence. “May I?” she asks, pointing to the dark blue mark.

“Ah, er, sure.” The boy extends his arm and smiles, getting ready for her mouth.

“Right.” Abigail spits on her fingers and presses her saliva on the boy’s skin (all for the cause), much to his disgust and deception of not being licked by a hot girl. With precision, the girl grabs the thin boy’s arm to press wrist to wrist until the mark’s ready. In the meantime, the boy, whose name seems to be Kevin (she doesn’t listen to any of his babbling while they wait until the transfer’s complete), smiles at her expecting something in return. All he gets is a pat in the back once Abigail looks down at her watery mark and smiles.

More confident now, Abigail gets inside as if she had never left the club and one of the members of the security inside stops her with a heavy palm on her shoulder. The girl flashes the muscular man a smile and lifts her wrist to him. He inspects the mark which is still wet and lets her go. Once the problem’s been solved, she’s ready to figure out the inside of the club.

It’s a sea of people. Literally. That, and the fact that she can’t see shit due to the constant flashing of lights and the darkness surrounding the place with the exception of the bars which seem to be calmer. Abigail seeks refuge in a dark corner to study the jungle of people around her. She spots a few specimens but most already have company or are too drunk to do something useful. She says no to a few who ask her to dance but after being asked for the fourth time, she goes with it and squeezes her way into the crowd. It’s impossible to move with a mass of people bouncing together at the rhythm of a repetitive song so Abigail keeps jumping and looking everywhere, afraid that someone might touch her butt in the process and the guy she’s dancing with smiles and talks to her. She can’t hear him over the loud music and gestures him to move away from the crowd. After a few attempts they leave to get some air.

Turns out he’s twenty-three, his name is Kyle and is majoring in genetics, which is rather impressive. He’s not drunk yet, which is a miracle, doesn’t smell and is slightly amiable to talk with. A true gem in a pig’s pen. They talk about college (she lies about her age), what they like, how many idiots around them are and how much they hate being told what to do by their parents. Hah, _the irony._

He steals a kiss from her and she doesn’t pull back. It all starts with gentle touches and kisses until they are openly making out by the tequila bar and she tries her best to push Mark’s dead body out of her mind. _Focus, focus._

Kyle suggests they go somewhere more private to ‘continue’. She’s fully aware of what he’s talking about and accepts. She goes with him to the dark alley around the corner, not because she’s eager for sex but because she wants to prove to herself her worth. The whole plan for the night has been to be convinced that love isn’t reduced to Hannibal Lecter, or her understanding of love, that is. It’s more about finding her special enough to take a risk and consider her as something other than a random fuck that will take her nowhere.

And so they kiss and Kyle’s being sweet. She can’t stop herself from making a comparison with the young man’s gentle peck on her lips and the way the older man greedily abused her mouth. The girl’s arms wrap around Kyle’s back and pulls him closer as he kisses her neck and she can see herself moaning in the gallery, the way he touched her and she closes her eyes. No, this is not about Hannibal, _get a grip on yourself._ If she wanted sex she’d have taken anyone from the club and all of a sudden she realizes that yes, that’s exactly what she did. She took the first man who’d give her the time of day without thinking because her need to have someone’s devotion drove her to end up like this. She’s tangled with a stranger to convince herself that she’s capable of being needed. Of being wanted and cherished like any other woman. Because she wants to be like that: normal. She _must_ be normal to be accepted in this world.

But all she can see are the mahogany eyes that made her feel that way, and suddenly Kyle’s hand over her crotch makes her uncomfortable. His touches are wrong, he is wrong. He’s not the one who’s supposed to be doing this and she’s a fool for believing she could forget about the doctor that easily, that she could replace what he has given her freely, without expecting anything from her in return. And she has more than enough experience with people trying to take advantage of her sexually. The traces of her PTSD after Alice’s incident are still fresh. Abigail starts squirming and he’s not seeing the signs. She’s not moaning anymore, she wants out of there and he continues. “Stop it, please.”

The boy sneers at her request. “This is what you wanted.”

“But I don’t want it anymore.” She squeezes out of his grip, but it’s too is tight. A bite on her scar sets her on fire with rage.

In a flash, her knife’s out and she stabs him in his liver, which is hard because she’s right handed but anger knows no barrier and the boy starts bleeding as if she would have slit his neck. There’s no time to consider which places are the most deadly: under his armpit, the arteries in his leg or his eye to name a few, and the first thing she got at hand works because Kyle grabs his side and falls on the ground. Abigail puts a foot on his chest to keep him quiet and in a second he’s gone. This is different from Nicholas Boyle, she’s not afraid. The young man was a threat and she had to defend herself in the only way she knows.

Now, the problem lies in front of her. The first thing she does is to pull him by his legs to the furthest part of the alley to keep them both hidden between the trash containers. The girl paces around the corpse wondering what would Hannibal do and she finds herself in a predicament as to what to do. Her clothes have the boy’s blood, she can’t walk around as if nothing has happened, she can’t leave the body there with her DNA in his mouth and she can’t take a bus carrying the body.

_Show me what happened._

She presses his number on speed dial and closes her eyes.

“Abigail.” He was sleeping, she can tell.

“I need your help,” she whispers and she steps under the lintel of an emergency door nearby.

“Where.”

He knows. Of course he knows. He’s the only one who’d understand. _He’s the only one_. “Paradox. 1310 Russell street. In Carroll-Camden.” She pauses and her voice trembles. She’s fucked up big time. Killing someone in your house is very different from doing it in an extremely exposed area. “Please hurry.”

He hangs up and her teeth are chattering. He’s not coming. He’s not coming and Crawford will get what he wants. She’s finished, she’s all on her own now and she sits on the final step of an emergency exit. There’s nothing left and just because she wanted to prove a stupid idea with a man not worth her safety and now she’s waiting for the imminent discovery of the body by a passerby. She curls her arms around her legs and hides her face on her knees. Waiting.

The lights of a car wake her from her shocked state and she braces herself, trembling like a leaf. The lights are off and she hopes nobody has seen her. Cautiously, she peeks to see the face of the one who’ll turn her in and a familiar shape stands instead in front of her.

He did it. He didn’t let her down.

She could hug him and kiss him desperately but Hannibal’s face is grim, concentrated on the dead body between Abigail and him. Without a single word, he opens the Bentley’s trunk and picks up Kyle. The girl watches him as he accommodates the corpse inside and once he’s done Hannibal redirects his attention to her. “We don’t have much time.”

She nods and enters the car. There’s a plastic mantle over the passenger’s seat. The ride is silent and she can’t find the words to thank him enough for cleaning her shit up once more. They head towards his house and not in the middle of nowhere to bury Kyle. Abigail turns to look at him questioningly. “I thought we-“ But he doesn’t answer. His mind is set on finishing his work and getting rid of her. That’s probably the issue.

“Go to the main bathroom and put your clothes in the plastic bag you’ll find there. I’ll be back,” he instructs as soon as they walk into the house. Under his command, she takes her bloody shoes off to walk in, even if the blood’s almost dry.

Abigail steps in the shower and leaves her clothes in the bag as instructed. Red rivers travel down the white porcelain and a moment later he’s back inside with a bucket and a recipient with a transparent liquid. “Fill the bucket with water three quarters of its capacity and fill the rest with this solution. Rub your body with it until the water runs clean. Do it quickly.” Once he’s done explaining, he leaves and the girl does as she’s told. She looks at the tag and the liquid contains Thymol, which she supposes it’s not a very common product you can find in any supermarket. Abigail doesn’t doubt and scrubs herself clean. Miraculously, it doesn’t burn but she doesn’t want to miss any traces anyways and once she’s done, she showers with a regular soap to get possible toxic traces off her body. According to the bottle it’s not toxic but she doesn’t want to smell like bleach the rest of the day.

Abigail wraps her body in one of the large white towels and goes downstairs. What she finds in the kitchen simply revolting.

On the metal counter, legs, arms and torso are put on display while the doctor opens Kyle’s chest to remove his heart. Hannibal’s wearing a plastic suit. Why is he doing this in the kitchen? He must have a hidden place somewhere where he can get rid of the evidence more securely. But what’s this?

He’s openly showing his hidden face, the one she found out and his real identity. Abigail wonders why is he being so open and honest about the way he is, what he does, what he hides from the rest of the world and why he’s risking his safety with a girl like her. Why is he cleaning up her ‘business’ when he doesn’t have to. Why is he saving her life without asking anything in return? Why, why, why? And the only answer she has is infinite adoration. A twisted form of loyalty and caring that goes beyond good and evil, beyond decency and mankind. Integrity that has the only purpose of keeping her safe.

Abigail walks closer and he stops from what he’s doing. The girl raises a hand to press it on his cheek and he leaves what he’s doing to face her. He looks vacant but she knows now that he’s far from that. That this is the only way he has to express his love and she leans forward to kiss him. This time he doesn’t push away. Matter of fact he deepens it and wraps his bloody arms around her frame with the sticky red liquid tainting her towel.

She’s his, absolutely his and she doesn’t want to escape any longer. She has tried, she has pushed herself into things without thinking and she knows she’ll continue doing it, just for him, just for the fact that she assumes now that she can’t live without him, even if the concept disgusts her, even if she wants her freedom. But how can you run away from the sun that gives you life?

The man takes his gloves off and the kiss grows in intensity. Soon his hands pull her towel to let it fall on the ground. He lifts her to sit on the counter and kisses her chest, belly and gently pushes her to lie down on the counter to nip the inner face of her thigh and lick her entrance. Abigail’s breathing hard, finding the situation absolutely wrong and delicious at the same time. With an almost tortuous calm, Hannibal spreads her legs and her labia to access her slit and lap her pearl. The girl doesn’t care about anything any longer and she rests her back on the metal surface, eyes wide and senses taking in everything that’s happening. Kyle’s blood wets a few of her the pitch black strands of hair and she squirms under Hannibal’s exquisite touch. His tongue is warm and skilled and she arches her back instinctively, feeling a bolt of electricity down her spine when he teases her clitoris. He’s feasting on her sex, sucking and pulling from her labia with his sharp teeth gently before closing his mouth around her entrance to suck hard.

It’s all for her. Sex, murder, lies, the unstoppable need to possess her, and she gives in, she yields, she breathes and dies at the same time. _Mine_. Abigail tries to grab something to keep herself in place and hooks her legs around his neck, forcing him to press his face closer. She’s absolutely taken by her impulses, her most primal and animal urges and she doesn’t care anymore if she’s being polite or not with him. Her hand touches something wet and sticky. It’s Kyle’s blood and she presses her palm on the liquid before cupping one of her breasts, twisting her nipple and shamelessly moaning. Hannibal stops and she’s afraid that he’s leaving again but soon his mouth covers hers and everything’s alright with the world. This is where she belongs and it took her what felt like a thousand years to understand it. His fingers slide inside and he applies pressure against the top wall of her womanhood, directly hitting her G-spot as he moves fast and steady. Unable to restrain herself any longer she grabs Hannibal’s arm and the only thing she can see is the light defining the man’s high cheekbones, parted reddish lips and feral, deep eyes. She comes at last with a loud cry, and the intensity hits her so hard that she’s momentarily deaf. After the silence, there’s a high pitched frequency hitting her ears and she’s panting heavily and staring at him as if he was a deity. Only he can achieve something like this.  

 _Completion_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> * The club where Abigail meets Kyle ("Paradox"), is a real Baltimore club: http://www.thedox.com/ I found the location pretty good for a murder, since it's in an industrial area with the railway nearby and lots of great places to hide a body.


	9. Chapter 9

The sheets are softer than silk and they smell like lavender, but there’s another scent that gets mixed with the first one and she can’t identify it yet. The sun coming from the window warms her back and reflects over the rivers of black hair on the white pillow. She’s very calm, more than she’s ever been in a long while, even when she was at home, back in Minnesota. There are no disturbances, she had no nightmares and the soft body next to hers is warm. Her fingers curl around a smooth field of hair over strong chest under her fingertips. She smiles. This is not her bed.

A kiss on her forehead, nose and lips forces her to open her eyes and find a few strands of ash blond hair partially covering the man’s eyes. She replies to the chaste kiss and leans up to kiss his cheek. She never imagined she’d be doing that and least of all with Hannibal Lecter. “Good morning,” she greets with a sleepy sigh.

“Good morning.” One of the man’s hands is resting on her hip while the other supports his head over the pillow beside her.

Three weeks have passed since the clubbing boy’s death and the cat and mouse game is over. Abigail’s been sleeping almost every day at his house and if she didn’t, it was because she had visitors, such as Kristen or Will, coming the following morning. Since that night, she got to know other places in Hannibal’s house, such as his large bedroom. It surprises her the predominance of cold colors used in the décor because one generally seeks for warmth in a bedroom but then again, we’re talking about a serial killer here who has very selected ‘channels’ to which he sends his ‘warmth’. One of them being the girl, and another one, Will. Alana’s a whole different story. She sees her as the only woman that reminds Hannibal that women are, in fact, amusing and interesting creatures, and not in the sense of funny or intelligent but like little mice he keeps trapped under his paw until he gets bored of playing with them. Abigail supposes the same will happen to her one day. But the difference lies in the unquestioning fact that she’s the one enjoying the beginning of another day with him in bed, and not her. There’s a radical difference between both and the girl is more than sure that she’s been put in a whole different category. This is not an egocentric contemplation of herself but the result of the logical thought that she knows what he is (Alana doesn’t) and she’s still alive. On top of that, he has risked the safety of his secret many times for her sake.

Abigail stretches with a soft noise from her throat that the man teasingly imitates, something that makes the girl chuckle and pull him closer to lay on top of her. She can smell him now since his cologne wore off during the night and his scent is musky and masculine, a fragrance she’ll keep imprinted in her sensory memory for the rest of her life. Her small fingers run up and down his broad back and he’s slightly resting his weight on his arms to not crush her.

It could be said that they both came to terms regarding their relationship; no father-daughter, nor friends, nor acquaintances. The term is ‘lovers’ and it seems like Hannibal has accepted it despite the gargantuan amount of time that took him to put his emotions in order and consolidate something that was meant to be since day one. That’s how Abigail sees it and nothing will make her change her mind.

“I want to make breakfast, but I’m afraid I’m temporarily unavailable right now,” he mumbles against her neck.

Abigail smiles softly. “How’s that?”

“I don’t want to move.”

The girl sighs deeply. “But I’m hungry.”

The man raises his head to look at her with narrowed eyes. “Gluttony is a sin.”

“One you’ve obviously taken out of your personal bible.” Communicating with puns in front of others is a secret language they’ve invented. It’s something that amuses her to no end. More than once she had to cover her mouth to restrain herself from laughing at his cannibalistic remarks in front of a guest or even Alana and Will. It’s a game she engages in sometimes and they end up having the weirdest conversations one could imagine with that kind of context. His insanity is contagious and she can’t stop herself from loving it. What they do is terrible in regards to the man’s reality. In this sense, you don’t have limits with Hannibal Lecter. Even more, if you prove your worth, he’ll encourage you to follow whatever he’s leading you to because it’s always fun to have someone sufficiently clever to share his deep and atrocious secrets. As far as she knows, that population has been reduced to one: her.

Abigail kisses him and the man rolls on his back to allow her to move on top of him, making it easier for him to wrap his strong arms around her small body. She takes the advantage to brush her lips over his high cheeks and strong jaw, his collarbone and down to one of his pectorals. She presses a kiss right over his heart and rests her ear against it to listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Abigail hums in delight. He might have bed a thousand women and many have probably done the same thing, but no one knows him the way she does and survived to tell. She survived her father and she’s now surviving Hannibal. Which, in many ways makes her indestructible.

“Aren’t you late for college?” he asks, stroking the girl’s slender shoulder.

She pokes him lightly on his side. “It’s Saturday.”

“Oh.” If she wasn’t lying in this position, she’s sure she’d see him smirking right now.

“You’re getting old,” she teases. Even if he makes jokes about it from time to time, he’s terribly vain about the way he looks and his physique. It’s all part of showing a ‘respectable’ facet to society. She can see it now. “Old and perverted. Poor innocent me.”

“Poor me, condemned to satisfy a young girl’s wishes and sexual appetite until she wears me out.” Both laugh lightly and when he does it, she nuzzles against his chest, loving the sound of his voice echoing against his ribcage. Abigail though, doesn’t need encouragement to slide a hand down his navel and caress his member, running her fingertips all along the shaft in order to confirm his statement.

Seconds later they are having sex and the crescendo of her moaning ends up in cries that can be heard from the living-room. She’s never imagined she’d be so vocal but it’s natural when he’s diving deep inside her or making her toes curl when he gives her oral. Hannibal has very good stamina, especially for a man his age and needless to say, their encounters have no point of comparison to those she had with Mark. Mark was a merely a prototype lover, perhaps not even that. Hannibal’s an experienced man who explores her inch by inch to discover her needs and is certainly enjoying every minute of it. They have so much to experiment, so much to live and share so much to…

The doorbell rings five minutes after they finish and Abigail jumps off the bed to clean herself and get dressed. She kisses him before the man finishes buttoning his white shirt and goes to ‘her room’, one of the many guest’s rooms she obviously never used. Hannibal goes down and the girl sneaks behind him, peeking from the top of the stairs to check out who’s coming. They ring again. Someone seems to be in a hurry. When she sees the familiar face at the door, the hairs at the back of her neck stand. It’s Jack Crawford and two officers behind him.

“Morning, Doctor. Is Abigail in your home?”

Hannibal frowns. “Yes. May I ask why?”

Crawford’s downturned eyes break eye contact and look behind him towards the stairs, as if he could see her even if she’s not visible. “I need to speak to her.”

“I must insist, what’s wrong Jack?” The doctor hasn’t stepped away from his spot, not allowing him in nor closing the door in his face.

“I need to speak to her. It’s urgent. She’s not in her house nor in Alana’s so she had to be here.” Crawford seems determined and anxious and Hannibal decides to step out with him, guarding his house like a hound.

There are officers with him, which means that she’ll have to go for a declaration on Mark’s case or perhaps Crawford found the way to link her to Kyle’s disappearance. Both scenarios represent a threat for her, but also to Hannibal’s clandestine life. She’s been selfish all this time forgetting that he’s been putting himself in the line of fire just for her cause. They have nothing on her, no evidence at all and if she hides and they search in the house, her refusal to be found will give Crawford enough suspicion to think ill of her. To make things worse, he’ll know about their relationship, which will sink Hannibal in a blink of an eye.

“I’m here,” she says, slowly stepping downstairs. Her legs are trembling and her chest is tight but she keeps moving.

Crawford watches her as if she was a rabbit about to be devoured by a wolf. She can feel the small black eyes scanning her for evidence, for the tiniest flaw she might present in order to lock her up. She knows she’s clean, there’s absolutely nothing against her and Hannibal’s there. In the end, she can count on him. In case of emergency, he’ll be there. It can’t be bad; they are both panicking because they think everybody knows they are lovers now. The proof is out there. They see each other very frequently, she kisses his cheek while he’s driving the car, she openly teases him about his good looks or why he doesn’t have a girlfriend… and if anyone’s guilty for letting the rumors run, that’s her alone. She’s been careless and stupid, just because she wanted to take a risk. She screwed things up. _Idiot_. She hopes it’s not that, but as soon as she approaches both and steps out of the house, the men behind Crawford grab her and wrap a zip tie around her wrists. Not a single muscle moves on Hannibal’s face and Crawford steps forward.

“Abigail Hobbs, you’re under arrest for the murder of Will Graham.”

…

The report says that Will has been dead for at least two days and that his dogs died before he did. The killer poisoned the dogs’ food a few hours before and the death was almost instant. The house shows no forced entry which means that Will knew his killer. He was found in his bed lying on his back, his chest open with a cutting object. The report identifies the weapon as a hunting knife, which was not found at the scene. The key to the case is what was inside Will’s chest: a broken porcelain teacup with roses adorning its contour, identical to those found in Abigail’s house after they searched her house. Ultimately, what gave her away was the existence of a few strands of her hair in Will’s hand. The hypothesis is that he tried to stop her by grabbing her hair in self-defense. The overwhelming amount of proof against her leaves no room for doubt.

The building for Baltimore’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane dates from 1887 and it’s been modified on several occasions according to the times the institution’s been through. A new wing was added in 1936 with more cells to contain the increasing population that begun occupying the place. In the 1950s and 1960s, the American Law Institute developed its Model Penal Code and this included a recommendation for a test for insanity, which helped to increase even more the number of inmates that occupy the building. Once more, the Administration decided to build an entire new wing, bigger than the one in 1936 and with modern facilities to improve the security requirements and medical as well.

No one ever talked though, about the dangers inside, which in some extreme cases result in death. Corruption runs freely from lowliest to the most esteemed, this position held by the Director, currently taken by Doctor Fredrick Chilton.

She’s sent to the North ward. The first inmate she sees behind bars starts howling, making the rest do the same and start shouting cat calls at her. Abigail remembers what she heard of the abuses while in Port Haven and trembles. This will be her home for a long, long time if not forever from what the lawyer has told her. Before she can arrive at her cell, a familiar voice calls her. “Hey sweetheart.”

Abigail slowly turns to look at where the voice came from. Right in front of her cell, Alice waves at her with a sneer.

…

“Abigail, are you truly aware that your freedom depends on your testimony?” Alana leans over the metallic table opposite the girl. Her hands are bound to a metal chain on top with a hook to prevent her from reaching her interlocutor.

“I went for a walk after school. That’s all I did.” The girl looks down, trying to sound convincing.

“You must have made a stop somewhere. Think, please, someone who could recognize you.” She can deduce the woman wants to turn to the witness trick again, just like it happened with Mark’s case, but it’s impossible. She can’t say the truth, which is that she went to Hannibal’s that night and stayed with him all night long. If they started investigating how often she’s been to his house and deduce that they’re together, it will involve the man into something else related to her. Doing it would mean endangering his safety by allowing the FBI to search his house and find out his true identity. That is out of the question.

“No, I’m sorry. I just…” Abigail tries to reach to grab her face but she can’t do it because the chain pulls her wrists down. “I don’t know what to do.”

Alana reaches out to rest her hand over Abigail’s, pursing her pink lips. The girl truly appreciates for the very first time her psychologist’s commitment to her, making her stay at the psychiatric ward more tolerable. At least she has someone on her side who believes in her innocence, even if all the odds are against her.

There’s a knock on the door and one of the guards enters. “Time’s over. She has another visit.” Abigail knows who it is and her heart starts beating faster. Alana leaves and the girl sees Hannibal’s Greek profile through the small window of the door as he talks with the woman outside. She gestures with her hands and it seems like they are agreeing on something. After a few minutes outside the man enters. He’s wearing one of her favorite suits, the dark blue plaid one. At first, she thought they were all hideous but now she loves them, to the point that she browses the Anderson & Sheppard, Armani and Burberry sites from time to time to imagine him wearing the classic clothing items. Yet another reason to think about him.

Her hand twitches, restraining her reflex of reaching out to touch him but not with so many people watching them. Abigail swallows hard and there’s longing and desperation patently exposed, and the doctor notices this. “Are they mistreating you?”

Abigail shakes her head. “I’m fine. The prisoners never gather together anywhere unless you behave well for at least a month so. For now I’m isolated.”

Hannibal nods and looks down at her pale, almost translucent hands. “You must tell the truth.”

The girl looks up, determined. “No.”

“The sooner you do it, the fastest you leave. Why are you hiding such important information?” he says almost in a whisper.

He still doesn’t get it. He doesn’t have an idea of the extent of her feelings for him. “Why do you think?”

“I can manage with anything that might be thrown at me. I’ve been living this way for over thirty years. Nothing will-“

“I just don’t want to lose you, okay?” she hisses with tears on the brink of her eyelashes.

Hannibal leans back into his chair and stares at her in silence. She wonders if he ever faced a similar occurrence before, that is, someone risking their life for him. “I don’t need your protection.”

“But I need you.”

It’s unwise to let words like these out when you’re involved with a man with an established set of rules that determine the way he relates to others. Hannibal’s been living alone for a long, long time to get a grasp of what those words truly mean and Abigail has assumed that he might not understand them ever. But she can try to stick them in his head gradually. Even now she thinks she can reach that part of him, oblivious of the fact that she might never be able to hold him again.

Hannibal moves closer and holds her fragile hands in his. “And I need you to leave this place.” 

Abigail clutches at his grasp and tries to grab him closer to kiss his knuckles but it’s impossible. The restriction has been designed for a very specific purpose. She absorbs his warmth as if her life depended on it and defeated, she lets her head down resting her forehead on the table to sob. When he touches her hair, the girl’s crying openly and she lets go of one of Hannibal’s hands biting her forearm to muffle the sounds. The mere idea of losing him strikes her like lighting and she looks up at him with reddish eyes. “Please, help me.”

“I will.” Hannibal stretches as much as he can to brush a tear away from her cheek and watches her with worry. He’s the only one that matters in her life, there’s no doubt left and with the tiny gesture she can tell that this is moving him, and she’s glad. She at least got to scratch the very first layer out of hundreds to reach his heart, or at least that’s what she believes. “Please, stay safe.”

“I’ll try,” she says between sniffles, and her hands are still on his, taking as advantage of the contact as much as she can. When the door opens she immediately lets go, scared that they might have seen her closeness to the doctor and find out they’re lovers. She’s extremely paranoid of everything, including that. The guard delivers Hannibal outside and he’s gone. Her hands are cold again.

…

The cell is icy and wet, something she’d expect from an old building, but the North wing is located in the newest area of the complex and still, Abigail trembles with the chilly humidity coming from the wall next to the bed. She can’t move it because it’s bolted against the wall and there aren’t many covers to keep yourself warm, even if spring is just around the corner.

“Psst.” Instinctively, Abigail turns to look at the cell from where the sound came from and Alice winks at her. “If you want to live here you’ll need to do some favors for people. This is not Port Haven darling. And believe me, you will realize about it soon.”

“Go fuck yourself,” the girl answers, turning around on the bed, facing the wall.

Alice’s voice is barely a whisper but clear enough for Abigail to hear it, which is convenient because the guards are all isolated in the room facing the cellblock. “Oh, but I won’t. You’ll see.”

The first day they asked her questions about the medicine she took, family history, and the like. The following two days are filled with relative peace. The showers are awful, though. She has a towel and her clothes, and the staff unlocks the shower door for her. At least she gets to shower alone, there aren’t communal showers as she imagined. Every couple of minutes they knock on the door to see if she’s okay. When she's done, she goes back to her room and that’s it. The  reason behind the complaint that the showers are bad is because the shower head is attached to the ceiling so the inmates won’t hurt themselves with it and the water is cold because people can burn themselves with hot water. They make her use Johnson's Baby Shampoo because it's non-alcoholic and once the patient’s done with it they must give the soap and shampoo back to the staff.  No conditioner. They can't shave because of razors, obviously. 

Getting used to the horrendous food is a torture. She picks up the smashed potatoes with a spoon and with each bite she remembers the delicious dishes Hannibal prepared for her. It feels like ages ago and there are no words to describe how much she misses his house. She wonders what people at college are thinking about her now. What Kristen is thinking. Even if she was on good terms with her, they didn’t deeply know each other to believe in her or not.

Night comes on the fifth day and she’s trying to fall asleep but finds it difficult. Carrie, the woman from the end of the row is singing the same song again and again and she simply won’t stop. Abigail closes her eyes and covers her ears and it helps a little, but she knows that the second she falls asleep and her arms relax she’ll wake up again with the noise.

Suddenly, the cell’s door is open and she imagines it must be early in the morning because they wake them up when it’s still too dark to have breakfast, but a pair of strong arms pull her from the bed and one male nurse grabs her from behind while the other takes her scrubs off her. The girl tries to fight but as soon as her foot connects with the other nurse’s arm, the man strikes her hard on her cheek and Abigail shrieks before she notices the nurse is spreading her legs and tying her ankles to the bed. The girl squirms and cries for help but no one comes to stop them. They lay her down on the bed and leave her there, totally exposed and scared to death.

“One hour, tops,” he says to someone at the door, and when she sees the person’s face, her eyes go wide.

“Sure. We’re going to have some fun,” Alice says with a sinister smile on her lips. And the torture begins.

…

He’s been trying to visit her every day but there’s a limit on the number of visitors and even if he talked with Chilton to allow him to break that rule, nothing can be done. He could blackmail him or frame him for the murder of one of his hunting preys, but he actually needs him inside because whoever enters will be a new one to conquer with his charm and it will take a good while. On top of that, Chilton’s clean. He has investigated through his contacts to find something dirty with no avail. Still, he knows that a scrupulous man like Fredrick must have his weak point somewhere and he won’t stop until he figures it out.

The stereo of the car is playing Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in F minor in a vain attempt to soothe him after attending an emergency with a schizophrenic patient. He presses the button of the remote to open the garage’s door and parks the car inside before entering the alarm code to unlock the house. Once inside, the man leaves his coat on the hanger by the Rembrandt sketch and heads towards his office. He needs to entertain himself with something else and stop thinking about Abigail, who is alone and craving his presence. He opens the door and sniffs. There’s a smell in the room, something unusual. Hannibal frowns as he sees an object on his desk: a hunting knife stuck with a paper below. Cautiously, he makes his way towards it just in case the alien presence is still inside but nothing happens. The paper has a simple message.

**_Mors certa, hora incerta._ **

Hannibal clenches his fist as he holds the paper tight. The war with the copycat begun the moment Will died and it continued with Abigail’s imprisonment. The most effective to lure your enemy out is to aim straight to his heart.

…

Whenever Alana visits her she lies telling her that everything’s okay because if the woman complains to Chilton, the attacks will only get worse.

“I need to know if you saw someone on your walk around the neighborhood that night. If anyone suspicious was following you, if you recognized perhaps one of the parents of the girls that died because of your father.” Alana says, still believing that their deaths have nothing to do with Abigail.

The girl shakes her head. “No. Isn’t there something else to look for, like someone else’s DNA in Will’s house or something?”

“No, everything’s clean. I asked Jack to double check and nothing was found.” Her face is neutral but she’s concealing something else behind.

“What am I going to do?”

“Stay until we can figure this out. I believe you haven’t done it, but sometimes I have to ask myself why would you do it.” Alana’s known for being forward, but sometimes she speaks too much.

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t!” she hisses, looking straight into the azure eyes.

Alana’s ignorant of many things. After years of being with Hannibal she didn’t figure him out like the girl did after just a couple of months of knowing him. Then again, it happened because he wanted it to happen, or she’d already be dead. The woman tries to help but fails miserably when she lets her erroneous judgment convince her that the only truth is the one she can see in front of her, disregarding other lines of investigation she could check out. She should question why someone would want to frame Abigail for something she didn’t do by asking Abigail’s friends or calling another psychiatrist. She and Hannibal are too close to Abigail to interview her and should withdrawal in favor of another psychologist's profile to use in her defense. She has suggested it but Alana objected by saying that the only way to get her out of here is if she could give them at least one name to check, which frustrated Abigail to no end.

Her hour is gone and another visitor’s waiting for her. She was expecting Hannibal to show at the door but instead a familiar friendly face in perfectly coifed braids enters the room shyly, as if the floor was burning. “Hey.”

Abigail looks down in shame. If she’s here it’s because she’s not convinced by what happened, or perhaps she came to laugh at her. Flat chance. No one would waste their time entering a horrible place like this just to mock her. “Hi, Kristen.”

The other girl sits opposite her and draws a small smile on her full lips. “Paul and I wanted to come but he had classes and didn’t want to skip them and-“

“It’s ok. If he doesn’t want to come, it’s fine. I don’t blame him.” Paul’s the other nice person Abigail can call ‘a friend’ even if he truly isn’t. At least he’s kind and doesn’t ask her too many questions about her past and her scar like the others.

They spend a few moments in silence until Kristen opens up her mouth again. “It’s so weird to not see you on campus.”

“Well, it’s not like I can decide where I want to be.” She tries her best to not sound bitter but the words just came out. “Sorry, I just… “

“It’s okay. How are they treating you here?”

“Fine,” she lies. What can she say to her? That Alice rapes her every two nights? That the facility is awful and that she barely gets any sleep? The black circles under her eyes are proof of that but people just assume it’s because she’s just getting used to the place. “How are you?”

“Okay.” Kristen runs her index finger over the metal table and focuses her attention somewhere else. “They are going to make a small tribute to Mark with a party. So idiotic,” she adds rolling her eyes. “They’re just going to get drunk and for what? Do they actually think that a stupid gathering is going to bring him back to life?”

The topic of Mark is put on the table and she merely nods. He was another ghost to carry on her back until she began her relationship with Hannibal. Everything made sense then and the boy’s death was pushed behind. No time to mourn someone she didn’t truly care about and she’s sick with counting the dead that crossed her path. She wants happiness for once in her life and Hannibal provides it every single day, or at least that was when she was free. She’s tired, tired of this life and suffering for even breathing. Tired of being the target of the constant abuse that seems to never end from people, especially those who are supposed to take care of her. The only ones who broke that cycle are Alana, Hannibal and Will, who’s gone now. She won’t hear him laugh with her with his remarks about how much she sucks at fishing, they won’t share the delicious ravioli he used to cook for her nor get flustered because he stopped letting her win at chess. She also won’t have someone to spend hours in silence with in the forest, pausing from their routine and simply contemplating the way life goes on. No more hugs, no more true smiles, nothing.

It’s finally Hannibal’s turn and her face which usually brightens with his presence remains expressionless, save for the initial smile she offers to him. “Hello.”

This time, his hand goes straight to hold hers and she doesn’t complain because he’s the only moment of peace she has in her day. “You don’t look well.”

Abigail shrugs. “I’m not in a five star hotel, you know.”

“I received a visitor,” he comments, and the girl frowns.

“Who?”

“Someone who’s determined to kill me.”

The words sound simple coming from him but she can’t stop herself from swallowing hard and rubbing her thumb against the veins on the back on his hand. The difference in size with her hands is obvious and she has always loved how it fits when he holds hers in the middle of their lovemaking. She’s sure he can defend himself, but the idea of losing him to the hands of another killer worries her. “Who do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. But it’s the same one who killed Will and put you here.”

It makes sense. “But, why you?”

Hannibal chuckles. “Some people can’t handle jealousy well.”

She has to get out of there. He needs her and even if she might be useless she has to be with him, supporting him as much as she can, but it’s impossible. Abigail looks at his paisley tie and her sight gets lost on the intricate pattern. “Alice’s here and she’s raping me again.”

The doctor frowns and his grip on her tightens, almost to the point that he’s hurting her. “I’ll find a way to free you.”

“How?”

“Someone else will take your place.”

“I just want to get out of here,” she mutters.

Their days apart have touched the deepest fibers of her core and there’s a point in which she can’t talk without breaking. She can trust him and she knows he’ll do something, and yet the hours turn into days and nothing happens, not to mention that she doesn’t know for how long she’ll live with the torment she’s going through. Hope is the cruelest of emotions and it’s killing her with every scenario that comes to her mind regarding her liberty. Every day she imagines that he’ll enter the cellblock and set her free, and that she’ll bury her face against his chest and cry out of joy, but that day never comes. If this is what whoever is in charge of life planned for her, they must have fucked up with the papers and switched hers with someone else’s, because all that’s happening can’t be real. If her life’s reduced to suffering, there’s not much left to do and she prefers to kill herself if she has to be confined there for the rest of her life without Hannibal. He has tamed her and she wants to believe the same has happened on the opposite end, but he will eventually move on and find someone else. She knows this. He did the same with his aunt even if he loved her to death and since she had the opportunity of touching the surface of who he really is, he’ll never trust anyone completely ever again. She’s alone, like she’s always been and this is the end. She’ll grow old between the ward’s walls and sooner or later she’ll forget about everything, how to laugh, how to dream, even talk.

A week passes and Hannibal hasn’t come to visit her. Alana’s coming from time to time, but she can see that the hopes of getting her released are gone. Abigail’s been condemned even if the trial for her case hasn’t started yet. She gets used to the abuse and doesn’t fight it anymore. She waits, her eyes get lost on the humidity spots on the ceiling until everything’s over and she can finally close her eyes just like she did in Port Haven until her abuser was done. One day, the visits stop. She’s out of tears now after crying every single night listening to Alice mocking her, hammering into her head with promises of a dark, dark future. An incessant reminder of the power she holds on her, and she thinks of Hannibal. What’s taking him so long to release her? The girl looks at her hands; she’s getting thinner. She won’t survive and soon she’ll just be another corpse in the morgue. Two days later she gets sick due to the poor conditions of her cell. The girl’s coughing so much that she suspects it’s pneumonia but the nurses won’t tell her a thing. This infuriates Alice because Abigail’s very cold and sweaty when she touches her, and one day she threw up and almost choked on her own vomit. The woman eventually talks with someone to get her evaluated, but once she’s relatively fine she starts with her attacks all over again. Those few days at the infirmary were bliss but of course, they wouldn’t last forever.

Alana and Hannibal are gone and she hears no word from them again.

She thinks of Will a lot and she regrets with all her heart what she did in his house that first time he visited him. Abigail hugs herself tight pretending he’s there, comforting her despite all she’s done to him.

Everybody knows that she’s the sexual toy of row six and soon she stops eating. The orderlies take her food intact from her cell and don’t bother to make her eat because they’ll eventually do it through IV. In the meantime, she can barely stand when she showers and once she’s back to her unit, she sleeps and sleeps and sleeps, hoping to never wake up ever again. Curled in a small ball with the single heavy blanket she has, sometimes she forgets that she’s still breathing and stares at the wall just to pass time, daydreaming of the wonderful life she’ll never have. A life that was never meant to be hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> "Mors certa, hora incerta" means "Death is certain, its hour is uncertain" in Latin.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are. The end of this story. 
> 
> Something very important: you'll find lines in French in this chapter, dialogues to be more specific. You'll find the translation of those at the end notes.

Disobeying your rapist’s orders will get you into trouble but being a lifeless doll makes it even worse. Alice threatens to use ‘toys’ inside her (and considering she’s in prison, they certainly won’t be soft, anatomical dildos but materials meant to cause more damage rather than pleasure such as spoons or brushes) and the girl decides to get herself together, at least for a little while. She starts eating properly and gains some color on her cheeks, all to avoid the torments the woman could inflict on her. Being stronger also carries the fact that her blood starts circulating again and her brain begins to cooperate enough to say ‘no’ when she’s requested to suck Alice’s sex. The woman lets it pass and Abigail’s fairly proud of herself but it doesn’t last for too long.

The promised night of their next encounter comes and Abigail waits sitting on her bed. The shadows of the guards come in sight at the other side of the cell and she sighs, stands up and prepares herself for another round, but this time, there are more shadows and she frowns. Three inmates are with them and as soon as the door’s open, the women jump on her like animals. They pull her hair while one of them punches her stomach and the other kicks the back of her legs to force her to bend and fall on the ground. The redhead who’s missing some teeth spits on her and together, the three of them begin to kick her with their feet on her back, arms and legs. Her head is pushed against the cold floor with a foot. The only sounds in the corridor is her whining and the _thud thud thud_ of her flesh being beaten without mercy. The girl’s body hardens as she covers her face, curled in a small ball she tries to shield herself from the beatings. The only thing she can think of is when are they going to get tired. It seems like forever until they are done with their ‘fun’. The guards take them out of the cell and close it, and just as quick as they came, they go. Abigail sits on the floor and it hurts everywhere. There’s a coppery taste in her mouth and she looks at her own blood tainting her fingers. Alice’s being careless. In Port Haven, she was very careful about not placing her bites on visible places but tomorrow she’ll be wearing marks everywhere. The girl deduces that everybody’s an accomplice then, because the following day no one says a word about the obvious bruises on various parts of her body.

…

Even if he and Alana have presented complaints about the barriers Chilton sets up denying their requests to see her, the situation remains the same. Almost two months have passed and the couple is desperate to see her, knowing that she’s not being treated decently. It doesn’t take much for Alana to figure out that Hannibal’s probably the one who’s being more affected by this and tries to distract him but nothing works. The man’s mind is deep into something she can’t reach and probably won’t ever. It seems like he’s indifferent to everything around him and, matter of fact, he has sent all his patients to a colleague to spend hours and hours alone in his office drawing or writing articles.

That’s what he says to her. Reality is quite different, though.

The nights are filled with research and masquerading his IP address with different proxies to contact other ‘professionals’ in the business requesting information about the one who’s trying to get him out of his cave. Nothing. No leads and if they are provided, they take him nowhere; fake names, wrong locations, vague ideas, nothing concrete. Hannibal gives up and locks? his iPad before leaving it on the nightstand. He lies on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, blankets at the level of his waist, hands at both sides of his body and his mind continuously working creating links and using the deductive method to try to figure out the minimal clues he has about this ghost. The fact that he knows him means that he’s been careless and someone saw him following the tracks of a victim, which is something that irritates him to no end. A failure in the system means that he’ll have to redesign his schedule but that will come later. Someone who saw him. Where? Considering the copycat’s ‘debut’ in the Tattler, it must have been at least seven months ago. If we add at least three months of investigation, which is the average to figure out any person’s habits in a stable fashion, it means that it’s been a year, more or less, since he’s been followed and studied like an insect in a National Geographic documentary. The interesting part is that there hasn’t been any relevant serial killers occupying the news before this thing started using his methods, so it must be someone new changing skins to move around without problems. _Clever._

His gaze is lost in the white ceiling until something that isn’t the shadows of tree branches cross the window in a flash.

Hannibal smiles.

The man quietly sits up in bed, puts his pants, shirt, shoes and leather gloves on and walks downstairs calmly towards the kitchen. He pauses at the pantry’s door for a moment before opening it, going downstairs and entering the numbers of the electronic lock before opening the basement’s door and continue his path downward. All the doors are open and he knows the ‘shadow’ has figured out a way to break into his house disconnecting the alarm without making any sound.

There are some remains of Mr. Huei at the back of the hexagonal shaped basement. Two legs buried in salt to make cured ham, which will be ready in a couple of days. A good and cheaper alternative to Jamón Ibérico.

“A lovely night to die, isn’t it?” he asks, facing the wall.

Not a single word comes from the visitor who’s, as expected, descending the stairs, all clad in black with a hood and mask concealing his head, leaving only openings for his eyes.

“Don’t be shy,” Hannibal says, turning to look at his opponent. Even if black has the effect of making someone look smaller than they already are, he can tell that he’s young and muscular and seems to be around his early thirties which will prove to be a challenge. He’s tall, he estimates 6’1’’ or so, at about 185-190 pounds and long limbs. Taller than him and younger, not a good combination for the older man.

The newcomer slowly takes a hunting knife from his waist and charges forward, which is a foolish move or risky, but well thought out technique if your opponent knows how slow you are. Thankfully, Hannibal’s fast even for a man his age and dodges the first strike even if the younger man redirects the blade quickly towards the doctor’s bicep barely cutting his sleeve and drawing a tiny thread of blood. Hannibal frowns. It was a new Armani shirt.

The doctor focuses his attention on getting the knife out of the killer’s hand by using everything he has at reach. This is his territory; he knows it like the palm of his hand and how to move around it. The knife swings in the air as the man prods Hannibal with short steps to come closer. The older man walks backwards until he hits a wall and waits until his opponent is close enough to kick his stomach and push him backwards against one of the chains hanging from the ceiling. Stumbling, his enemy tries to get back to his initial position but Hannibal’s already wrapping the chain around his neck and pulling hard. The other man tries to set himself free with one hand but Hannibal’s grip is tight and the sounds of his muscles being constricted by the metal are music for the doctor’s ears. With a strength the doctor ignores, the younger man’s right hand moves back and brushes Hannibal’s side, cutting him and making him loosen the grip. Hannibal quickly steps backwards to be out of immediate reach and the man in black takes his time to gain his composure and unexpectedly takes his mask off. Soft blond curls frame a baby face with intense green eyes and pink lips. A true angel of death.

“Before I die,” Hannibal says panting and lifting a hand defensively, “I’d like to know your name.”

“Why, is my name the last you want to hear?” he asks.

“It’d be an honor, if you may.”

The young blond nods and smiles. “Peter.”

“Peter,” Hannibal repeats, nodding in return. “Pleased to meet you,” he whispers before charging forward like a beast to blast the man’s chest with a yop chagi kick, rotating his hips ninety degrees and hitting him with the heel of his foot, taking most of the air out of the young man’s lungs. Peter bends forward and loses control of the knife. The older man is fast and kicks it out of reach before moving closer and continue with punches on his face, but Peter recovers fast and counterattacks with a knee kick of his own on Hannibal’s bloody face. The doctor falls on the ground once more and Peter hits him again and again and the man covers himself with his arms and legs protectively before extending one and swiftly rotating it clock-wise over the floor to kick Peter down again.

Hannibal examines his bloody but unbroken nose, taking too much time to consider as Peter jumps back to his feet and his fist connects with the doctor’s jaw. This time Hannibal evades the punch and bends to grab the other man by his waist, pushing him against the wall. His powerful beating goes straight to the young man’s genitals, momentarily knocking Peter for a moment, time the doctor uses to grab his head and prepare to break his neck. But Peter’s faster and head-butts Hannibal, and the doctor’s sight goes double for a moment. It’s like the other killer trained very well to face him or else he’s getting older. A mix of both, probably.

In a second, Peter takes another knife from a sheath on his back and Hannibal sighs. “Knives. Old fashioned way. I like your style,” he comments before he steps backwards to the zone where Mr. Huei’s legs are. “Guns are tasteless,” he adds and Peter’s coming closer and closer.

The shinning metal of the large sharp cleaver flies in the air moved by such force that it makes its 2 lbs weight nothing until it stops its movement in Peter’s forehead, right between the eyes. The 4 inches width of the blade get stuck in the middle of the young man’s head and scalp, cracking his skull, slicing his brain and causing him to fall like a lifeless doll on the basement’s ground. Hannibal pants and watches the pool of blood forming around the killer’s body and picks the hunting knife to stab him and finish the job. The stupid amateur thought he could take him. The older man steps on the idiot’s nose to get the cleaver out. Yet another utensil he’ll have plant in someone else’s crime scene. Oh, well.

…

“It’s five A.M., for fuck’s sake.” Jack Crawford covers both eyes with the heels of his palms and groans.

“It was your idea.”

Bella Crawford was against having a dog but after Will’s insistence, her husband finally adopted Bebe, a Golden Retriever with too much energy for the couple. She needs to be taken out for a walk every single day even if she has a huge garden for her alone, and Jack decided to keep her as a promise to Will to find his killer. The dog won’t stop barking in the backyard, grumbling, the big man gets out of bed, puts his striped bathrobe on and pulls the curtains away to open the window. “Bebe, cut it out, please and-“

The dog wags her tail as her master pays attention to her and she barks happily. The agent’s eyes move from the dog to Peter, his open glassy dead eyes stare at the stars up in the night sky, arms spread in a cross position over the lawn. Crawford’s dark eyes don’t move from the corpse as he steps backwards to pick up his gun from the drawer of his nightstand. Extremely alert to any movement or sound, the man checks his surroundings before approaching the body. There is an envelope resting on the young man’s chest. Crawford picks it up with gloved hands.

**_Dear Mr. Crawford,_ **

**_First of all, I apologize for visiting you in the early hours of the dawn but I’m afraid I had to take the trash out as soon as possible. This young man here is Peter, who’s been comically pretending to imitate me with lame attempts to catch my attention. You might wonder why, and I think we can agree, that this subject lying in your garden is yet another product of this decadent youth without idols or morals at all. Don’t you think?_ **

**_Just because I highly respect your work, I think you’ll find very interesting the information in a couple of articles about events that I was not a participant of and in which I’ve been falsely accused. Please refer to the Tattler reports from May, July and September 2013 as well as Mr. William Graham’s murder in which I took no part. Knowing the existence of our jumpy and yet extremely rich relationship, this boy took Mr. Graham’s life as a direct message to you, because nothing works better than putting down your special pet, right? The evidence you’re looking for is the cutting object piercing the man’s front. I’m sure you’ll find interesting results in figuring out that the incision on Mr. Graham’s chest perfectly matches the blade you’re seeing. Consider the density of the knife and this individual’s strength as well and you’ll find out why the cut was clean, among other things._ **

**_As for investigating his home, I’m afraid I’ve been two steps ahead again. I’m sure you’ll understand why I provoked the fire and subsequent explosion in his house since it contained quite a lot of information of my persona which would prove useful to find me. I can’t allow such a thing to happen, therefore, you’ll have to keep looking beyond your protuberant belly._ **

**_Have a pleasant Friday. Ta._ **

“What’s going on”? Bella’s voice from inside forces Crawford out of his thoughts about the evidence.

“Stay inside, baby,” he calls as he makes his way back to the house and leaves the gun over the nightstand. He picks up the phone instead. His wife leaves the bed and freezes in the middle of the large bedroom, witnessing the gruesome scene with Bebe happily barking at her. The special agent speed dials a regular number. “Jimmy, wake everybody up.”

…

It took several nights for Hannibal to get used to her reflex of pushing him away when she woke up from a nightmare. After her immediate release when Peter’s body was found, the doctor took her home to feed her and cure her wounds as a product of the constant violence she’s been subjected to during her stay at BHFCI. No one denied him the right to treat her, being her legal guardian and the most apt of all the professionals in Baltimore to help her recover from her traumatic state, something everybody thought was nothing but frailty as a girl who was not prepared to face prison. When she tried to say she’s been raped to the authorities, Hannibal quickly interceded alleging a misreading of reality as a result of PTSD from her previous experiences with a psychiatric facility. Abigail felt betrayed and couldn’t understand it at first, but when she heard the news of Chilton’s body split in twenty five parts in the director’s living-room of his house, she briefly interrupted him drawing in the office to kiss his cheek. It didn’t end there though, for the inmate of cell fourty-five, row six from the North wing that was sent there from Port Haven, she was found beaten to death in the showers. Without Chilton and Alice, Abigail’s healing process began.

The first three days she slept for over eighteen hours in a row each day and when she woke up, she ate and watched documentaries. He let her gradually feel at ease touching him and reviving the memories of physical contact with the man. Slowly, she started taking his hands, kissing them, brushing his fingers against her own face and sometime later, she finally kissed him. He didn’t touch her beyond that, knowing that sex was way ahead in the future.

After recovering some strength, Abigail couldn’t stop herself from opening her eyes every five minutes during the night in Hannibal’s bed. She was waiting for the nurses to come at any minute, and after sitting up in bed agitated and panicking, she’d cry for hours against Hannibal’s chest. A few days later, as soon the same happened, she began to realize that she wasn’t in the psychiatric ward any longer, that the bed was warm and comfortable and went back to sleep. Sometimes she slept facing Hannibal and when she woke, she used to jump out of her skin seeing another form by her side, forgetting that she was free and not in that hell. The man pretended to be asleep all the time to quickly react to the occurrence, calm her down and aid her back to rest beside him. He didn’t have decent rest for many, many nights.

After the initial two weeks she left the bedroom for the first time to have breakfast in the dining-room instead of the bed.

A few days later, she started curling against him, surrounded by his protective arms holding her and even if she woke up from time to time panting hard, she forced herself to stay in place before remembering who was sharing her bed and doze back to sleep.

These episodes repeated themselves for at least two months until she got used to her surroundings again. Recovering some habits (such as sharing a shower with Hannibal) took time, but step by step she came back to reality, her reality. Pushing back her temporary frailty, she fought days and nights to find her identity again and find the serenity to think before acting, suppressing her fears. The doctor pushed her into this with some experiments with stronger drugs and therapy. Fortunately, she had no problems with talking about what happened with all the details he requested her. Letting it out was proving effective.

After six months she was practically back to a normal life, thanks to Hannibal’s constant presence and infinite patience. Then, the big decision was made.

…

“I’ll be on Skype as usual so you can catch me there most of the time. I’m on mobile and if I’m not, I have the DND status on. Anyways, just send me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” Kristen hugs her friend tight as a voice in the airport’s speakers announces Abigail’s flight.

On her part, Alana’s containing her tears and trying her best to smile at the doctor. Jack Crawford pats his back. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do to convince you?”

Hannibal smiles and shakes his head. “The decision’s definitive. At the point of sounding absolutely rude towards you and my former student, there’s nothing else left here for us in America.” The doctor made it clear when he announced their departure. ‘Will’s gone and with him, our dream to become a family.’ It was (and will always be) true.

Abigail watches as the man hugs Alana for a good while and represses her jealousy, knowing that they’ll soon be just the two of them and no one else in between. She’ll make sure of it.

The last the couple sees as they ascend the escalator are three raised hands in mid air and Alana’s watery eyes finally releasing tears down her cheeks. Goodbye, mom and dad.

_Goodbye, Will._

…

Paris is a whole new world to explore, especially for hunting. After some convincing, Abigail allowed Hannibal to sew a plastic suit for her in order to accompany him during his escapades. She was told that playing God can be a very therapeutic way to overcome your fears. It didn’t take much for the girl to assume her nature. After what she saw him doing with Kyle in his kitchen, nothing else affected her at all. Hannibal did the heaviest work, such as carrying the body, chopping it and disposing of the remains miles away in different locations. At the same time, he taught her how to remove the most important organs without damaging them and it took her two bodies until she got the hang of it, putting all her effort into learning how to control her strength with the sharp knives. She learned that she had to take into consideration the fat surrounding the part she wanted, the tenderness and texture of the flesh, as well as identifying the pieces that didn’t fill the requirements for consumption, such as a heavy smoker’s lungs, an obese man’s heart or someone with liver cancer. He specifically picked those bodies to illustrate to her, not to consume.

Just like in America, Hannibal started taking patients in their house, an 1869 home that’s been remodeled through the years with modern amenities adapted to the owner’s wishes. When they arrived, they lived in a hotel for almost two months before occupying the house because he had men working on the plumbing, painting it all anew, remodeling the kitchen and of course, the basement. It’s located in a fairly calm neighborhood (Porte de Versailles Expo) because the best place to hide a couple of serial killers is in the multitude, blending in with the rest.

For their first night at the house, Abigail planned a gift for him after dinner. They did the dishes, went to their bedroom and he lay in bed after the routine of putting his pajamas on, but the girl went to the bathroom, emerging later absolutely nude. It was gentle and slow, with tender touches as she rediscovered his body and soon enough the intensity grew to the point of passionate lovemaking. Hannibal allowed her to ride him, giving her all the control she lost in prison and offering her the chance to experience, once more, the importance she holds in his life. How defenseless he may be beneath her when she could easily kill him in such a vulnerable moment. The girl has no idea, nor does he, of the unimaginable amounts of power she has on him and vice versa. It’s a perfect balance they keep and it comes naturally, as strange as it sounds, every day. There are some things to tweak from time to time because they both have marked differences but they manage despite them. They have their time apart in which he’s at his office (remarkably smaller than his previous one in Baltimore) and she’s in the bedroom reading or writing in the diary Will gave her. She fills it with a few little stories or poems that come to her when inspiration strikes from time to time. Hannibal has never read even one. It’s her secret. Hers and Will’s.

In order to be able to fit Hannibal’s expectations when they go out hunting, Abigail started eating healthier and going to a gym three times a week after classes (she retook her psychology studies at La Sorbonne). She goes to work out from six to eight and sometimes even nine, depending on her mood and how slow and relaxed she wants to take her routine.

That morning she goes to class, returns back home to leave her books and netbook and picks up her gym bag waiting in one of the closets of the house. She finds him in his office writing an article for _Soins Psychiatrie_ and the doctor turns his attention to her. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah. Make me something sweet tonight?” she requests, pushing some strands of golden hair behind his ear.

“As my lady commands,” Hannibal answers, taking her hand and playfully kissing the back of her hand. Abigail watches him tenderly, getting used to attention like this. He adores her which is a highly dangerous feeling to experience with her, but said feeling is reciprocated.

“Okay, see ya.” Abigail kisses his cheek and lips before leaving the office and heading to the front door she stops and turns to look out the window on the first floor where Hannibal continues writing. The girl smiles and heads towards the Métro. The doctor promised to teach her how to drive soon.

Instead of continuing towards the Madelaine subway station via Line Twelve, she makes a stop at the combination at Sèvres – Babylone to pick up Line Ten heading to Gare d'Austerlitz. It’s rush hour and the Parisians are extremely rude, something that requires a lot of deep breathing and counting to one hundred to calm down. She almost misses her stop at Cardinal Lemoine and squeezes her way through the door to leave the train full of people smelling like sweat and cigarettes.

It’s at an intersection with Rue Mongue. Abigail checks the message from the anonymous source on her phone _. 9 Rue du Cardinal Lemoine, 4 A._ According to Google maps, it’s just two blocks away. It’s kind of a tourist zone being so close to the Seine, so you can find pubs, simple restaurants and cafés. Abigail walks down Cardinal Lemoine with a smile on her lips as the little flags at ‘Brava Pizza’ sway with the soft wind. After crossing Rue des Écoles, the sidewalk narrows to a small space where you can’t walk with someone else beside you. The street maintains the width of the original from hundreds of years ago.

The closer she gets to the destination, the heavier her feet feel. There are some times in which you have to be brave, the bravest you can and face your biggest fear, show your fiercest side and deal with it. This is one of those days and Abigail remains quiet for a few moments as she stops in front of the big ‘9’ under the blue wooden door between Librarie Goudermare and Le Cheveau Du Cardinal. Abigail approaches the wall, sighs deeply, raises her chin and presses the button for 4 A.

“Oui?” a feminine voice answers.

“Je viens d'un amie en commun.” Abigail clenches and unclenches her fist, licking her lips nervously. “Hannibal.”

A few moments pass in silence and Abigail thinks that she fucked up, that no one will allow her in until the buzzing of the door confirms the opposite and she’s in. The place looks modest from the outside but it’s fairly luxurious inside. She takes the ancient elevator and closes the vintage scissor gate. It’s slow, but it’s good for her because she’s still getting ready for what’s about to be seen. and once she hears the clank of the metal box, the girl descends and slowly makes her way to the white door waiting for her. She rings the doorbell and when the door opens, there she is.

She wears a pearl colored shirt and long black skirt. Lady Murasaki Shikibu’s slanted eyes study her face with a calm that only Asians, in their infinitely higher education can achieve. She’s truly beautiful, just like she supposed she’d be and very well kept for her age that Abigail supposes must be at around her late fifties.

Abigail’s grip on the gym bag’s strap tightens. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

The woman takes a moment to reply. “Yes.” She steps aside and gestures her to come in.

The apartment is like a Japanese museum with a touch of art deco which makes a strange yet not completely unpleasant combination. There are fans, jade dragon figurines, old scrolls hanging on the walls and the curling smoke of incense sticks near an altar with names written in something that looks like Chinese or Japanese, hard to tell. At the back of the room, leading towards the corridor that connects to the rest of the rooms, a blue and black Samurai armor rests, solemn and severe. Just like the one at the entrance leading to Hannibal’s bedroom. Abigail follows her to the living-room where she takes a seat opposite the Louis XVI styled couch. Murasaki straightens her shoulders. “You’re too young.”

Abigail frowns, leaves her bag on the floor and rests her palms on her knees. “Excuse me?”

“You are too young to be with him,” she clarifies. The woman picks up a long pipe from the round table beside her and takes a long drag before crossing her legs. “You can have another life.”

The girl smiles. This woman truly knows who he is, as expected, even if they’ve never met before and it seems like she wants to do community service with her. It’s good though, that she goes straight to the point, no bullshitting, no games. “My life has been decided the moment he saved me.”

The Japanese woman chuckles and looks out the window. “ _Au wa wakare no hajime_ ,” she says with her oval face towards the afternoon lights of the last day of October. Her hair is very long, black as night and thick. Abigail imagines how he played with it, just the way he does with hers. “It’s an old Japanese proverb that suits your reality: meeting is only the beginning of separation.”

“A separation you forced him to go through,” the girl answers with a firm voice.

Murasaki breaks her peaceful expression to throw an angry look to the American. “You know absolutely nothing about us. How dare you assume things your juvenile mind won’t be able to ever understand.”

“I might be young, but I know when I shouldn’t fuck up with a man who loves me blindly like he did with you.” Months of experiences with Hannibal have taught her that. Abigail had a lot of time to think about that during her recovery days back in Baltimore, and no one, absolutely no one, is going to tell her how to love from now on.

“Hannibal doesn’t love.” She pauses to take another drag of her pipe and let the smoke draw curvy shapes in the air.

Abigail looks down, as if she was convinced by it and nods. Perhaps it’s the truth, perhaps the man will never truly learn how to love, but that’s not what he’s been showing her from the very first moment of their relationship. He has always been there, he has a different approach on personal relationships and he’s hermetic with the world. So is she. If he opens up, you might fall into the abyss of his heart and he won’t ever let you go, but she likes it there. It’s warm and solid and she can continue living because of it. Picking up her bag, Abigail stands up from her chair. “Excuse me, I need to use the toilet, I’m on my period.”

The woman lifts her thin hand to her right to indicate the path towards the toilette and the girl moves feeling her piercing eyes on her nape. Once inside, she opens the bag, looks at its content and closes her eyes. She counts to ten and opens her eyes to look at the floor.

Minutes later, the squeak of the plastic takes Lady Murasaki’s attention and her relaxed expression turns into fear. She knows.

“Il ne t’appartient plus.” Clad in her plastic suit, Abigail stands in front of her, sharp tanto knife in hand close to her thigh and her gym bag in the other, which she leaves behind her.

The woman chuckles. “Je crois que c’est un adulte et qu’il est plus que capable de décider par lui-même.”

Abigail takes one step closer. “Il a fait son choix.”

Murasaki can see it coming and proudly stands up, as if she was facing her destiny, one that would come, sooner or later. She faces the girl, just an inch or two smaller than her. “Alors pourquoi es-tu là?”

“Pour te dire adieu. Je dois aller faire les courses et je suis en retard.”

Abigail aims straight for her stomach on her left and holds her as she bends to force the knife to cut her flesh horizontally until she reaches the right side. The Japanese woman grabs Abigail’s shoulder and her grip is strong, but the girl is younger and stronger now and she pushes her away to fall on her back over the expensive Persian rug. Her blood is tainting everything surrounding her and Abigail crouches beside her, watching her face contort until she stops gasping for air. She can tell that the her last thoughts are going back to Hannibal, to that boy madly in love with his aunt, defying all the rules of society and giving himself entirely to her.

The girl’s face remains unemotional once she stops moving and Abigail’s fingers move in front of the dead eyes to see if she gets any reaction. Her small gloved hand puts the Japanese tanto in the woman’s and arranges her body to make it look like it was part of a seppuku ceremony. She observes her placement of the body and starts removing her plastic suit, an extra one she sewed for this occasion only. The girl steps out of it into the dry area of the rug and deposits the plastic suit carefully in a large ziploc bag before putting it into her gym bag. She picks up another extra pair of gloves from it and puts them on to not leave a single trace behind. Finally, she gives her a final look and exits the apartment.

The source told her that the building is old and that they still use a basement furnace that people use to burn papers or trash they no longer need and it heats the entire complex, which comes handy for her plan. She takes her good time waiting until no one’s in sight before she can make it to the room and throws the ziploc bag with its content, stained with blood. Abigail watches it burn and waits until it melts in minutes.

She made the decision of finishing Murasaki Shikibu’s life the moment Hannibal suggested leaving for France. Getting rid of all the painful passages of his past was her top priority and as soon as they got into the plane, she started sketching the plan in her mind to do it. It was partly a retribution for all he did for her with the same purpose (clearing her past) and partly because there can’t be two women in this world who love him knowing what he is. Surfing the web in incognito mode (she knows he checks her laptop from time to time) while Hannibal was alone was very helpful to get in touch with people who are in the business and share this kind of information. The doctor taught her how to stalk a few days after identifying the victim. That knowledge has been kept in secret to make him believe that she wasn’t interested in finding anyone. She wouldn’t, in that way, raise any suspicion. When the target is famous, that’s when the money takes part of the transaction. Luckily, after days of socializing with the source, she got it for free.  The location of the gym, so far away from their house was deliberate. When she got the exact address of Murasaki’s apartment, she found the line that would send her to the other side of the Seine, far away from the woman but with a meeting point in which she could take the Ten that would take her to Cardinal Lemoine. Twenty seven minutes to Madelaine using the Métro looks like a long distance, but she insisted on it with the excuse that all her friends went there. And he bought it, because she’s still a teen and adolescents tend to do stupid things like that.

Back to the street, she walks fast to the subway station to pick up the six forty five train to Madelaine. She makes it on time and once inside she closes her eyes for a moment and rests her head against the glass to bring herself back to reality. It’s done.

After her work out she scrubs herself thoroughly to get rid of any traces of the blood (even if it didn’t touch her skin, she knows that Hannibal can smell it), first with the regular white soap the gym provides and then with the liquid creamy soap she loves and carries in her bag. Two hours later she returns back home, showered and carrying groceries in one hand and her dirty gym clothes in the other which go straight to the laundry room. When the man kisses her, his expression doesn’t change nor does he pause to smell her or anything suspicious. Abigail sniffs the air and squints. “Chocolate mousse?”

The doctor shakes his head and continues stirring the hot dark liquid in the pot. “ _Mille-feuille_.”

“Yummy.” With a bright smile, Abigail wraps her arms around his waist and presses her cheek against his broad back, eyes closed, swimming in pure bliss. He’s hers now, completely hers and there are no bindings tying him to anyone, be it the present or the past. He’s free. Just like her.

Someone’s freedom ends when someone else’s rights begin, and Abigail Hobbs’ had hers stolen in her childhood. Life in its purest state demands the right portions of love, compassion, comprehension and respect among other values, but some people embrace the other side where guilt, fear and skill can be used to end those perfect lives. Embracing the knowledge of possessing such power is liberating. She has come to accept that as part of herself, both sides, and she’s glad she can live with them. Hannibal did it for many years now and many to come with her by his side, so if he achieved happiness, so can she. There are dangers, risks and fights ahead but she’s more than ready for it. For the first time in her life she’s sure of what she wants and she knows how to get it. Her peace of mind cost the lives of many on the road but there is no more looking back, no more guilt about things that had to be done to build herself and be the woman she is now. No more past to torment her. She set her mind into believing that she never had parents and that her only family is the man she’s living with and loves. The man who forged her into becoming someone who will never, ever be afraid again. As of now, she can’t ask for anything else from life. It’s all perfect, all set and ready to begin her new life without any obstacles blocking her path. The clock’s been set to zero today for both of them. She has achieved, finally, to build a method of practical living.

…

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _French translations:_  
> **  
>  * “Je viens d'un amie en commun.” = "I come from a mutual friend."  
> * “Parlez-vous anglais?” = "Do you speak English?"  
> * “Il ne t’appartient plus" = "He’s not yours anymore."  
> * “Je crois que c’est un adulte et qu’il est plus que capable de décider par lui-même.” = "I think he's an adult and he is more than capable of deciding for himself."  
> * “Il a fait son choix.” = "He made his choice."  
> * “Alors pourquoi es-tu là?” = "Then why are you here?"  
> * Je dois aller faire les courses et je suis en retard.” = "To say goodbye. I have to go shopping and I'm late." 
> 
> **_Other notes:_**  
>  * Yop chagi kick: A Tae Kwon Do move.  
> * 9 Rue du Cardinal Lemoine, 4 A: This address actually exists. Just for kicks, you can see it [here.](https://www.google.com.ar/maps/place/Home+Garde+Protection/@48.8489941,2.3540202,3a,75y,131.49h,90t/data=!3m4!1e1!3m2!1sXc-5dOKS9ehn6a0APW7WSQ!2e0!4m2!3m1!1s0x47e671e4dc6a9f63:0x5b07a5253d652057) (It's the blue door)
> 
>   **  
>  _Special thanks:_  
> **
> 
>  * First, I'd like to thank you all for reading this story. It's been a pleasure to read your encouraging comments and it means a lot to me. 
> 
> * I'd also like to thank the people who made this story possible:  
> \- [lionessamiele](http://lionessamiele.tumblr.com/) and [daughterhobbs](http://daughterhobbs.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing the chapters.  
> \- To [wasthelure](http://wasthelure.tumblr.com) for the help in Abigail's characterization  
> \- And finally to [drdumaurier](http://drdumaurier.tumblr.com) for the French help. 
> 
> To all, thank you very much!


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